Adrenaline
by WishfulWriting
Summary: White Collar gets involved in a case focused on a large scale seller of forgeries. Neal proves he may have a connection to the case, and gets more deeply involved than originally anticipated. Involves Neal going under cover, getting held captive, and a test of Peter and Neal's relationship. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

The office was pulsing with activity that Wednesday morning when Neal arrived. When he first walked in, he stepped just past the doors to pause for a moment, observing the commotion ahead of him with slight hesitation before fully crossing the threshold into the room. A handful of agents, half he didn't recognize, were busy exchanging papers and talking rapidly as they moved around the office, as though on a critical assignment.

Frowning barely discernibly, more from curiosity than concern, he then moved towards his desk to watch from the sidelines, sitting on the edge of the furniture and, for the countless time since his first day at work here, appreciating the perspective his spot in the office gave him.

He glanced up at Peter's office. The man didn't appear to be there.

Pensive, he removed his fedora from his head and held it by the brim between his fingertips. He flipped it up and caught it lazily, repeating the motion after a long pause.

He wasn't completely sure what the buzz was about. He and Peter had just wrapped up a case the day before, a fairly straight forward one at that, with more paperwork than action, and he felt a little slighted by the thought that there was a more interesting, urgent case that he might not be privy too. Peter had not mentioned anything. Nor had the office the previous day seemed so energized.

To feel energized would be welcome. Given the cases he'd been involved in recently…. Neal needed something more interesting. In addition to the last case, the handful before that had also been somewhat… boring. Neal tried not to complain or act out, and didn't think he had, but realized he probably hadn't been fully successful, as he had also found himself on the receiving end of a sermon from Peter more than once that month on the validity of all cases, exciting or not, and how action and adrenaline weren't the guiding principles of the FBI objectives. On one such lecture, Peter had even offered, somewhat sinisterly Neal might add, to loan him out to the violent crimes unit if he really needed a 'rush,' to which Neal shook his head and committed himself to behaving quietly. Violent crimes were not his forte, and grotesque images made him more queasy than motivated.

Glancing up at his handler's office for a fourth time since arriving that morning, he let out a barely audible sigh at the fact it continued to be empty. Where the hell was Peter? He flipped the hat in his hands again.

It was a few minutes later, at almost nine, when he spotted Diana walking towards him. He smiled at her, sincere and with teeth, a gesture that wasn't returned.

"Caffrey," she spoke dryly as she reached him. Her arms moved to cross over her chest. She already appeared unimpressed. Neal wondered if it was his suit, and looked down at himself skeptically. It was one of Byron's favorites and fit perfectly.

It couldn't be the suit, he decided. It was her, not him. "Where's Peter?" he asked.

She raised her eyebrows. "Good morning to you too."

Without blinking, he flipped the hat in his hands once again, catching it flawlessly. "Seems to be a good morning for some of the office. What's all the commotion this morning?"

"Cyber crimes division is all I know." She shrugged. "They're close to something. Not my case."

"You're not curious?" He authentically frowned then. How could she not be curious? He glanced again the activity in the office. Something was going on. Something was getting a lot of attention. "Why not?"

"Maybe if I didn't have enough of my own work to do I'd be more curious," she answered. "Besides, Peter told me I'd be brought in later today. Until then, I've got enough to do… Speaking of which…" She gave him the once over. "You busy enough? You seem a bit too curious in cases that have nothing to do with you."

He raised his eyebrows. "How do you know they have nothing to do with me?"

"Because I can tell you're dying to know what's going on." She smirked. "Peter's in the conference room with Hughes, by the way." She paused. "Before you ask me again where he is."

He said nothing for a moment, face stoic. He could be patient if Peter was with Hughes. That was a meeting he didn't want to interrupt or be present for if possible. He then cleared his throat. "You want coffee?"

"Huh?" She frowned. She had briefly turned away from him and now turned back, raising her eyebrows.

"Coffee," he repeated slowly. "Dates back to the tenth century. It's a brewed drink prepared from roasted coffee beans."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the history lesson, genius. No, I'm good." She gestured towards the small pantry of the office. "And there's a full pot of perfectly good free coffee right there if you're so inclined."

"Was thinking to go down the street." He shrugged. "Not feeling the generic swill this morning."

"Generic swill," she echoed skeptically. "I'll be sure to tell Peter that. He was the one to put on the last pot."

A second pot before nine. Neal tried to be nonchalant. "What time did he get here?"

Diana put a hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me? Do I look like his personal assistant?"

He chuckled good-naturedly, though a little apprehensively, and she rolled her eyes yet again at him before walking away. Neal turned his gaze once more towards the conference room on the second floor. What the hell was going on? And when had it started?

He flipped the hat once again in his hands. At that moment, the meeting in the conference room seemed to break. The door opened and people started to walk out. Peter was included, walking out in step with Hughes, where they stopped for a moment outside the doors to chat. Neal tried to watch their expressions and to see if he could read their lips, but they had both shifted so they weren't directly facing the floor. The discussion was brief, and after a moment, Hughes walked away towards his office.

Peter turned then and his eyes scanned the floor, stopping when he met Neal's gaze. While Neal pushed himself up from the desk to stand, he caught the distinctive headshake of Peter. It was a "no" of some kind, which didn't sit well with Neal. He didn't like the word 'no.' It was one of his least favorite words. On the same list were prison, jail, confinement, consequences, and radius. Despite this, he respected the request for that moment and remained in his place.

Another agent then seemed to catch Peter's attention and his back was once again turned away from the rest of the floor.

What was the 'no' for? Neal wondered. Don't come up there? Maybe he didn't want to. His eyes caught movement of Hughes outside the conference room. He definitely didn't want to.

The plan to go get real coffee formalized itself in his head. If he wasn't going to be included here and they wanted him to stay on the sidelines, then the least they could allow him was to be caffeinated.

Fifteen minutes later, he was back at his desk with a macchiato and much appreciation for the coffee place down the street. He had barely stepped inside the building, sat down in his chair, and taken a first sip of the liquid when Peter showed up at his desk.

"Where have you been?" came the admonishing tone.

Neal allowed himself to swallow and savor his coffee drink as he turned his eyes upward to the irritated man in front of him. He knew (or was pretty sure) it wasn't real irritation, not at him anyway. Nonetheless, he avoided Peter's eyes and instead studied Peter's tie. It looked new. Maybe Elizabeth's influence. "What do you mean?" he asked. "I've been here. And is that a new tie?"

"Here?" Peter echoed. His hands went to his hips as his chin jutted out in the direction of the coffee cup. "You sure, Neal? You weren't here ten minutes ago and that has five blocks away written all over it."

"Well, I was here until I very briefly stepped out for coffee, and now I'm here again." Neal frowned. He put the coffee cup down on his desk. Getting better coffee than what the office had to offer was not illegal. He had reminded Peter of this multiple times. "This is good coffee. You know if you venture just down the block—"

"No venturing. We're going undercover. Now. You ready?"

"Undercover?" Neal smiled. Finally some action. Undercover was good. He liked undercover. Maybe he would finally get something interesting to do before he had to create his own interesting. "Yes. What do I need to do?"

Peter's hands remained on his hips. "You need to sit in the van, watch, and listen. Quietly. I'll fill you in on the ride over."

Van.

Quiet.

Neal felt his stomach turn. His smile faded. He couldn't even bother to try to remain emotionless then.

"Neal, don't start. Don't give me that look," Peter told him with a sigh.

Neal couldn't help the look. Well, he easily could but didn't want to. This was _not_ the undercover he enjoyed. The undercover he enjoyed involved assuming a character, getting his anklet taken off, and turning himself over to that persona. It involved adrenaline and thinking creatively. It made his heart beat faster and made him feel alive. And it didn't involve the van. The van shouldn't even be called undercover, not in a million years, and not just in his humble opinion.

He only hoped Elizabeth hadn't made sandwiches.

The van didn't offer excitement, not even versus the past month of administrative and paper-heavy cases. And while it felt good to close cases, he was starting to feel a bit of a void from an adrenaline perspective.

He had even been tempted to create a case of his own to give the team a real chase. He'd gotten excited about it at one point, planning it out, but he also was pretty sure that it wouldn't go over well when solved. Even if he framed it as a scavenger hunt type of ploy. He'd mentioned it to Mozzie as a sounding board, who had listened attentively with mild amusement at the plan but then reminded him that 'wasting federal resources and time' would likely result in undesired consequence. Neal hated hearing his least favorite words from Mozzie.

"But, Peter…" he started. He hated that his voice sounded whiney, but he also wasn't going to pretend he liked the idea. "Why the van?"

"No." There was the headshake again. "Enough, Neal. You're going to like the case once I explain it to you." Peter glanced behind him at the rest of the office. "Listen. I need your thoughts on this one. But Cyber Crimes isn't too keen on…. On, you know."

"Me?" Neal guessed. He picked up his coffee and then leaned back in his chair. He was in no hurry to take a ride to sit in a van somewhere.

"No, nothing to do with you specifically," Peter said, a little too quickly.

Of course Peter would try not to make it personal. "Of ex-felons," Neal supplied. He took another sip of coffee. Man, it was good. Peter had no idea what he was missing out on while insisting on drinking office sludge.

"No, not that either," Peter answered, though his tone faltered slightly. His hands dropped from his hips to his side. "We need to go. You ready? Or you want to go to the bathroom first?"

Neal curled his fingers around his coffee cup, rolling his eyes slightly at Peter's question. Why did he always treat him like a child? Need he remind him that he had been one of his most elusive fugitives, outsmarting the FBI at every move, constantly keeping them on their toes? He didn't need to be reminded of bathroom breaks.

"It's going to be all day in the van," Peter explained, noticing the eye roll and providing the same back. "Don't complain later or try to use that as an excuse."

Neal sighed. Needing a bathroom was one of the many excuses that would get him out of the van. He'd perfected getting out of the van with creative yet believable cover stories. Elaborative excuses worked well. But complaining and driving Peter crazy was also a valid option.


	2. Chapter 2

Two hours later, Neal was up to speed on the new case and bored out of his mind in the van. The target was on the fourth floor of a commercial building, and they were parked across the street, looking for any sort of activity from the building.

The storyline was pretty straightforward. Neal didn't know what Peter really wanted his thoughts on. He was starting to think that line had been false motivation to get him to not object to coming. The suspect was accused of running an online, illegal art gallery, stocked with well-executed forgeries that came with false authentication certificates. He had accomplished several pricy exchanges that had crossed state lines. The FBI was fairly certain this office on the fourth floor was filled with a good portion of his inventory and was the main location from which he conducted his business. Everything in the investigation had traced back here. However, without the official warrant, which was pending, they could only sit and wait.

Jones was with them in the van for the first twenty minutes and helped with the set-up. He had traded polite, semi-relevant conversation, helping to pass the time. But he then stepped out, a planned commitment in Queens his excuse. He would be available in a few hours if needed.

Neal was jealous of his excuse. Especially of the way that Peter barely reacted before he simply waved him away, acknowledging being aware of his commitment without even a single follow-up question. Neal observed the interaction with half resentfulness, half wariness. Going outside his current radius to go run an 'errand' unquestioned would be welcomed at that moment. But Peter would never just wave him off without questions. Not to leave the van and especially not to leave his radius.

He tried not to hold on to the resentment against Jones nor to let his appearance show he felt that way. He didn't need to hear Peter explain to him _yet again_ the concept of 'privileges' and that this was only awarded to those that hadn't broken the law. The last time he'd been on the receiving end of that speech, he'd made the mistake of retorting to Peter that it was only applicable to those that hadn't been _caught_ breaking the law. He thought it was an important distinction, but it was a comment that Peter made him regret immediately. He didn't want a repeat of that.

Regardless of the limited options to do otherwise, Neal was never a fan of simply sitting and waiting. "I can go check out the building," he offered after a few minutes of silence had passed subsequent to Jones' exit.

Peter didn't even pause before answering tersely, "No."

"But I can check out who the other tenants are," Neal explained. "These buildings usually have a directory in the lobby, Peter."

"We know who the other tenant are," Peter responded. "It's in the file." He pointed to the folder on the table in the van. "Did you read the file?"

"Peter, that file is just based on public record." Neal had already read the file, yet he shifted his chair closer to the table and leaned his elbows onto it. He flipped open the folder once again, the pages of which he had already been through forty minutes earlier in detail. It had the case premise, the background of the suspect, photos, building layouts, everything. "Public record is only half the story. If I can just check if –"

"No."

Neal sighed, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. No. He hated that word. He was already stiff. He closed the folder in front of him. "What's the website again?"

"Art deal dot com," Peter answered. "Was on the third page, bold and highlighted, in case you missed it in your comprehensive review of the file…" He watched Neal pull out his phone. "Sending that to your little friend?"

"Maybe," Neal replied as he finished a quick text message to Mozzie. Couldn't hurt to have another pair of eyes on this case. He put his phone away and sighed again, eyeing the television monitor in front of him with a zoomed-in view of the building's entrance. He already had a headache. There had been close to no activity except people walking past the building, all caught up in their own unrelated lives. "Maybe there is a back entrance. Or a garage entrance."

"Maybe," Peter agreed. "Completely possible."

"If that's the case, then I could –"

"Getting real tired of telling you 'no', Neal," Peter said dryly. He turned his head to gaze at the younger man. "You're smart enough to know what my response is going to be."

"You didn't know what I was going to say."

Peter smirked. "That's where you're wrong. I do know… I know exactly what you're going to say. Just like you know what I'm going to respond."

"Why don't we order something from this website and arrange the delivery to –"

"Already in process. As is the warrant."

Neal could tell Peter's patience was waning as he pressed the conversation. That was typical. Close quarters in the van did that. Especially one-on-one. He couldn't just allow the silence to pass, or to simply watch the monitors, but in asking questions, Peter seemed to grow tenser by the minute. Sometimes in this situation, he would just allow himself to chat, about the case or otherwise, but this time he felt too restless to do that.

"Peter," he started again.

"Neal..." Peter's voice had that warning edge to it. That one syllable becoming two sort of tone.

Neal smirked. The response was so typical and comfortable that he enjoyed it. He paused for a moment, reverting back to a serious expression. He counted the seconds, occupying himself by picking up a pen from the table. "Peter…" he said again.

"Neal." Peter's tone was clipped. He again glanced at his younger partner with skepticism. Neal's expression was solemn, but he could pick up on the playful tone from his voice. He knew the somber exterior was a ruse. Eye contact would reveal more, but Neal wasn't making eye contact. On purpose. He was now instead focused on dismantling a ballpoint pen that had also been sitting on the table. Beneath the table, one of his legs bounced with pent up energy. Peter wondered if he even noticed.

It had only been a couple hours. Why was it so hard for him to sit still for an hour? He shouldn't be that bored yet. The case was interesting. There was plenty to discuss. But Neal seemed more focused on suggesting action items than discussing it. They had barely spent fifteen minutes discussing potential motives and other angles.

With Neal's pent up, anxious energy simply on an assignment, Peter always had a hard time imagining him caged in a jail cell. What the hell had the kid done all day in a cell? He couldn't think of it.

"It's a multi-use building," Neal began again. "There are twelve commercial tenants in the building. The floors above the sixth are residential. All tenants have the same lobby entrance." He paused as he unscrewed the top of the pen and the spring bounced out onto the table out of his reach. "While there are twelve commercial tenants, there are fourteen commercial spaces. Meaning – "

"Two are empty," Peter finished. "Yes, Neal. That's in the file." He watched Neal stretch to retrieve the errant spring. He was relieved for Neal to illustrate he had at least read the file and hadn't just pretended to. Neal's ability to absorb information was uncanny. That is where Peter looked for him to provide insight, connect the dots, find discrepancies…

"One is on the same floor as his space," Neal continued. He sat back in his seat and continued to fiddle with the pen. "So we could maybe do surveillance from there, instead of here, since—"

"Since that wouldn't tip him off at all."

"Peter, not set-up as surveillance like this." Neal gestured his hand around the van, looking up with a critical frown. "Real surveillance."

"This is real. This isn't obvious."

Neal smirked. "Yeah. Right. Just like I never knew when you had surveillance on me. It's like you have an invisibility cloak. Really clandestine. How could I forget?"

Peter was quiet, knowing that Neal was indirectly referring to when he'd pulled stunts like having pizza delivered to the FBI surveillance van. He ignored the reference. "Moving on, Neal."

"Anyway…" Neal persisted, smirk fading, "if we set-up in there, maybe with a similar interest in art and a new business backed by one of my old aliases, then I could make an intro and – "

"Not happening… Enough, Neal, alright? You're talking money and time you damn well know we don't have." He saw Neal's expression souring and continued, softening his voice slightly to placate him. "All good ideas, Kid, and I mean that. Exactly where we might go if this was more complicated and we had more resources, but that's an investment we don't have the funding for. Not since we can get the same results with good old-fashioned van surveillance for pennies in comparison."

"Maybe Cyber Crimes has funding."

Peters shook his head. "I'll stick with old-fashioned. And warrants." He glanced at his watch.

"Old fashioned…" Neal muttered under his breath sarcastically. He scowled, and then suddenly cursed. "Shit." He pushed back his chair.

Peter looked over at the outburst and muttered a curse himself when he saw the pen's blue ink all over Neal's hand. Of course it couldn't be just fidgeting incessantly with this one. There had to be some other ordeal as well. Always a mess, literally or figuratively. "God dammit, Neal. Can't you just sit still for once?"

"I _was_ just sitting," Neal objected irritably. He appeared equally perturbed at the mess. He looked around the van. "Do we have any paper towels or napkins?" He looked under the table. "I need something to clean this up."

"Did you do this to get out of the van?" Peter accused, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. He watched Neal's movement as the kid looked around for something to wipe his hands on. The dirty hand was precariously close to making other things dirty. "Careful. Do not get a single smudge on the file, Neal. Or the van. You hear me?"

"Or what?" Neal responded, rolling his eyes. "Cyber Crimes will sue you?" He then smirked and purposefully reached out and placed an ink-covered thumb onto the outside of the file folder. He pressed down and then lifted his hand to review the clean blue thumbprint proudly. "Evidence."

Peter swallowed a wave of annoyance. "You really want your fingerprints on FBI case files, Neal?" He kept his tone mellow, while internally aggravated that Neal had responded to a direct order with an, 'or what?' followed by immediate disobedience. He tried to imagine the response of Diana and Jones in the same situation and realized he couldn't. He couldn't imagine them destroying a pen while sitting on a surveillance job in the van.

While bothered by the response, 'or what?' he realized it was actually a good question. Peter wasn't sure of the answer, and he realized the threat had been rather empty. He started to feel more frustrated. There was no pre-determined 'what,' and before he could decide on one that was appropriate, Neal was rambling on.

"You already have my fingerprints. Plus you guys have thousands of manila folders to go around," Neal muttered. "Probably millions. You probably hold stock in the paper company that makes them." He held his hand up, turning it back and forth in front of him. His look on himself was one of disdain. "I need… Rubbing alcohol."

"Rubbing alcohol?"

"Yeah. For ink." Neal looked up at Peter thoughtfully. "You know the ink that they put in stacks of bills at the bank – the dye packs? Well, the only thing to get that stuff off your hands is rubbing alcohol." He paused. "And persistence. A _lot_ of persistence."

Peter stared at him incredulously. Neal never failed to amaze him. "And why would _you_ know that?"

Neal paused at the question, diverting his eyes, and then cleared his throat "I, uh, wouldn't?" he answered back, tone a bit hesitant. "Just… Never mind. But this –" he held up his hand insistently, "I need to take care of. Can I? Go?"

Peter sighed. He hesitated for a moment, mulling the options over in his mind and realized there weren't many. "Fine." He waved him off. "Go. There was a Duane Reade down the street. If you're not back in ten minutes, I'm calling the Marshals."

"Peter…" Neal responded, tone a bit disappointed.

"Just _go_ , Neal," Peter responded stiffly. "Ten minutes starts now."

Neal didn't hesitate then and immediately moved to leave the van, smile hidden.


	3. Chapter 3

_A big thank you to the readers so far, and especially those who have left feedback, which I immensely appreciate. This story was one I was crafting up behind the scenes for a while and decided why not start to post it. I hope to keep a weekly update schedule. Hope you enjoy._

* * *

The visit to Duane Reade was a quick one. It was within two blocks from the van, and fortunately when he arrived fairly empty. Neal was able to locate a generic brand of rubbing alcohol and a small package of paper napkins to purchase fairly quickly. He spent a few seconds trying to remember if nail polish remover worked better and then decided to go with his initial instinct. He tried to hide his ink-covered hand both as he browsed the store and when checking out. He was pretty sure the cashier, an older gray-haired gentlemen, noticed, though he said nothing. A handful of people had formed on line behind Neal and as he left, he tried to ensure his hands were turned away from them as well.

Outside of the convenience store, he immediately went to work cleaning his hands. He stood by a trashcan on the corner, twisted the cap off the bottle, and poured the rubbing alcohol over the culpable fingers while holding his hands over the open top of the trashcan. He then opened the package of napkins, doused a few with the liquid as well, and began rubbing his hands persistently. He was glad no one was around, though he suspected any onlookers likely would have seen stranger things on the streets of New York than a man cleaning his hands.

After a couple minutes of hard scrubbing, which caused the paper napkins to nearly disintegrate, most of the ink was thankfully gone. It was probably not even noticeable to most. He still noticed it, because he was used to _completely_ and not just _partially_ erasing evidence, but this time he decided to let it slide. Perfection would have to be sacrificed in the interest of time.

He discarded the half empty bottle and the napkins into the trash, and started to walk back towards the van. He walked slowly, savoring the time outside. Two blocks was not going to be enough of a stroll to appease his restlessness. He was dreading sitting in the van again. Until there was a warrant, there was not much to do, other than speculate. And speculation was becoming tiresome.

He paused in his progression back to the van and took a quick glance around the block at the next corner.

He glanced at his watch. He had a few minutes.

No harm in figuring out if there was a back entrance.

Just in case.

* * *

Peter glanced at his wristwatch and then back at the surveillance monitors. No activity.

He sighed. Twelve minutes since Neal left.

His warning to call the Marshals after ten minutes had been another empty threat, almost jest, but he had hoped that regardless of true intention it would make Neal a little more expeditious in his return to the van. Unfortunately that didn't seem to be the case. Peter was starting to realize he would need to figure out some new threats that actually were convincing. Neal was obviously starting to take his current chapter of threats too lightly.

While he questioned Neal's actual ability to control the performance of a ballpoint pen, especially one that had been in the van versus one he'd brought with him, he did wonder if somehow it had been on purpose to get out of the van versus purely an accident. Would he really try something that silly just to get past these doors? Perhaps. The kid could be creative with what he had at his disposal when he wanted something, especially a diversion. At the same time, fastidious Neal seemed irritated at himself for the mess, so Peter tried to believe it was really just an accident.

He stared at the discarded pen on the table and then at the case folder with the prominent blue fingerprint on it.

The van was quiet without Neal. It made Peter uneasy. The store wasn't far.

He glanced at his watch again.

This case was supposed to be one to hold Neal's interest. Maybe he hadn't framed it for him right. Neal's involvement on a case could form a range of possibilities. At his best, he was Peter's golden boy and they were absolutely in synch. He was in those moments the best partner that Peter had ever worked with, though he had never admitted that to him. Even at his best, he had a penchant for twisting the rules and making his own. He made rash decisions to rush results. Peter couldn't even count the number of times he had been forced to similarly manipulate the truth just to protect the kid after one of those decisions. If Hughes only knew… Peter hated when he was put in that position.

Peter always reminded himself that Neal was well-intentioned. Deep down, he was good despite his past. He just needed coaching. Even in his crimes, he had never looked to violence or to hurt any innocent people. In fact, often Neal put himself into dangerous situations in an effort to help. Most, not all but most, of his trouble now was actually in an effort to expedite cracking a case or to benefit or impress Peter in some way. Peter wasn't blind to that fact. Though it still frustrated the hell out of him and was possibly contributing to a future ulcer.

He let a few minutes more pass and then took out his phone. He dialed Neal's number from speed dial with a sigh.

It cut off after just one ring and then went directly to voicemail.

Not a good sign. "Shit," Peter muttered out loud.

A text message from Neal followed a moment later. Peter eyed the screen skeptically as he read it. 'There was a long line,' it stated. 'Ten minutes, tops. Sorry.'

Peter rolled his eyes towards the van ceiling, sighing out loud. Ten minutes? He texted back disgruntledly. 'Hurry up.' After a pause, he added another text that read, 'And if you can text, we both know you can pick up the phone when I call you.'

A response didn't come and Peter dropped his phone on the table with another sigh.

He drummed his fingers impatiently against the table. He couldn't explain why he worried so much about Neal. He was reminded of the irony that this was a person he used to chase with intentions to lock up, and with tremendous focus and effort. This was a person that was once a pile of case files to him; one that he used to spend hours after hours researching in an attempt to finally crack him. This person had gone from one type of a challenge to another.

Now that he was a physical presence in his life, Peter sometimes found it hard to imagine his old drive to want to simply arrest him and charge him with everything possible. The feeling had first shifted when he finally met Neal in person for the first time. He was struck by how young he was. Neal seemed nothing like that criminal mastermind he had once pictured. Brilliant and precocious, yes. Criminal, perhaps, but not with malicious intent. Peter now spent most of his time trying to protect him and steer him right. Which was sometimes even more tiring than tracking him down in the first place.

Which is why Neal straying off course was incredibly frustrating. His behavior was Peter's responsibility. It could end poorly for them both if he strayed too far. There was only so much Peter could cover up, so by default there was only so much he would tolerate. His leash was much longer than any other handler's would be, which he wasn't sure if Neal truly recognized despite constant reminders, but it was still a leash.

His cell phone rang and he quickly answered, mistakenly thinking it was Neal. "Where are you?" he asked tersely.

There was a pause and then Diana's voice came over the line. "At the office, Boss…" her tone was calm despite his greeting. "We got it."

Peter blinked, taken off guard for a moment. "Sorry?"

"I said, we got it. They just called," Diana responded. She paused. "Hey—You okay?".

"Yes, sorry. I'm distracted. We have it?" His eyes shifted to the surveillance monitor again. There was a woman with a baby stroller walking past the building but otherwise no activity.

"Yes. We have the warrant. We're good to go." She paused. "The team is five minutes out from you. Phone records show a call was placed from the office about thirty minutes ago, so it's likely he's still there if you haven't seen any movement. We also got confirmation that the order placed three days ago is in shipment locally, so that will be intercepted later today."

"OK. Good." He took a breath. "That's good news."

Diana paused. "You sure you're okay, Boss? You seem a little distracted…"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Give them the green light. Thanks, Diana."

"Got it. No problem."

The line disconnected, and Peter then tried Neal's cell phone again. It once more went to voicemail without even part of a ring. He cursed, this time more emphatically. "Fuck."

* * *

Neal did feel slightly bad when he texted Peter that there was a long line. It wasn't a complete lie. It was just that the line had formed coincidentally behind Neal. He hadn't _personally_ needed to wait. He added the 'sorry' to the text for that reason. He didn't like misleading Peter. But that wasn't the same as a lie. The location that Peter _believed_ the line to be was merely based on his own interpretation of Neal's statement.

He never in a million years would have felt guilty for making a statement that might have been (or maybe was meant to be…) misinterpreted. But things were different now. He was loath to admit that enough time with Peter had made him actually _feel_ a conscience at times. He tried to shake it, Mozzie warned him to kick the habit, but it was harder and harder.

Probably because this particular argument was a common one of contention between the two men. Peter had put his view across many times: ' _If you knew how I would interpret it, and that wasn't the true situation, then that's purposefully misleading me, and that's a lie,'_ he would say, almost verbatim each time. Neal would disagree, while attempting to be deferential, suggesting that someone's incorrect inference simply based on the available information didn't mean that the provider of the information was lying. Peter would come back impatiently that it in fact meant _exactly that_ , if there was information purposefully withheld to give the wrong impression.

Those could be long conversations where voices were raised and there were threats of returning him to prison. It normally ended with both of them irritated, usually interrupted by something, and Peter swearing only somewhat heatedly with a pointed finger that he would one day get Neal to understand his point of view.

Maybe the feeling Neal had wasn't conscience. Maybe it was just absolute abhorrence of that conversation.

When Peter tried to call him again, he quickly sent the call to voicemail and swallowed down a slight sense of guilt. Ten minutes he'd been given. In actuality, it was probably now pushing halfway between that and fifteen since he had left the van. Peter had threatened calling the Marshals after ten, but Neal had heard that threat many, many times before, and it elicited little more than an eye roll from him now. He knew the most he was likely in for was a repeat of the same dreaded conversation about misrepresentative statements, probably with a prelude touching upon tardiness and the importance of answering the phone, and a final finale about respect. That he could deal with so long as this detour got him some good information.

A walk around the next block had confirmed the existence of a back entrance from the other side of the building. It was more of a loading dock than an entrance, but it quickly got him into the building. After that, a quick set of stairs up one level had him in the same lobby that would have been accessed by the side of the street the van was watching.

For a criminal operation, the offices of the suspect, a Mr. Graham Messier, seemed pretty unconcealed in public domain. In the lobby, there was a poster advertising the services of the art collector, with his name stated, as well as the hours of the office and directions to the specific part of the fourth floor. All were clearly laid out. It was like it was welcoming any and all visitors, also known as potential customers. Neal took a picture of the poster discreetly with his phone.

He then glanced at his watch. He'd give himself five minutes. Go upstairs, figure the guy out, then get back to Peter before his lack of punctuality bordered on audacious.

He considered texting Peter that he was just looking for a bathroom, hence the delay, before coming back. But he then reconsidered and continued with his plan. That would sound too crafted.

Just five minutes was critical. This was a necessary detour. Otherwise, what benefit would they gain from simply sitting in the van?


	4. Chapter 4

Where the _hell_ was Neal? was all Peter could think of as he greeted the incoming team of three that had arrived to serve the warrant. He met them outside the van and could feel himself starting to sweat. While he should have been focused completely on the goddamn case, he now had to sort out thoughts about where the hell his errant CI could be.

Diana had asked him twice now if he was okay, with a look of concern on her face. Twice he dismissed the inquiry and told her he was completely fine, reminding himself to shake it off and focus on what needed to happen next.

The ten minutes granted to Neal were now pushing twenty, and he was starting to regret ever allowing him to leave the van. When was anything ever simple with him? Would it have been so bad for him to deal with a blue, ink-stained hand for the day? It wasn't like it would hurt him. In fact maybe that would have been a good lesson for him. Peter now felt foolish to have let him go. Why did he always just give in? Peter wondered this irritably as he tried to push down the rising feeling of ire he felt.

The warrant gave them a right to enter the premises, and they had enough conditional evidence to bring Messier in for questioning as well. They would enter without much notice from others in the building. It wouldn't immediately seem as though anything was out of the usual to anyone watching the scene unfold, which was better for Messier. The point was to remain discreet; all three of the new arrivals wore suits, vests underneath not detectable and weapons easily hidden by their jackets.

Peter knew they couldn't wait. He couldn't delay a detailed, time-sensitive plan due to Neal's lack of punctuality. He couldn't have a trip to a convenience store cause a delay in getting a step closer to apprehending this fraud. Not after they had been waiting for this warrant to come in. He had to move forward, hope for the best, and would have to deal with Neal later.

It was with one last glance down the block and at his phone that Peter walked away from the van and towards the entrance of the building with the team.

The lobby was basic, with a single doorman who seemed disinterested in actually checking in with any guests despite a sign that claimed this as mandatory policy. He glanced up at them briefly when they walked in before returning to a newspaper. They walked past him nonchalantly, without stopping, moving across the marble-tiled floors to the elevators.

The ride up to the fourth floor on the elevator was quick. Upon arriving on the floor, the team briefly restated the plan: enter the office, ask Messier to leave with them for questioning, and for one team member to stay behind to search and document the office. They would refrain from any weapons being drawn or any threats unless Messier chose not to cooperate. Peter stressed this part of the plan a few times. Given his background, they did not expect any resistance, but plans to take those measures were always put in place.

It was all very straightforward.

It wasn't until they approached the office at the end of the hallway and neared the door, which appeared from a distance to be open, that Peter's suspicion was raised. He could hear voices as they reached closer, including the hint of one that sounded all too familiar.

Neal.

He froze only for seconds before forcing himself back to the situation. He was unable to do anything, or else risk causing suspicion or apprehension to the team's approach, which would potentially limit their success at bringing Messier in.

God dammit, he thought.

The next minute moved in a flash. The team reached the office, where the door was indeed open, and announced themselves as FBI, serving a search warrant. The two people in the office came into view as the team entered the room, both wearing a look of surprise as they slowly raised their hands in the air.

One of those two people was indeed Neal.

Peter felt a rush of anger as he met Neal's widened eyes briefly before looking at the other man. He had to focus. Messier stood a few inches taller than Neal, and a handful of years older as well. He matched his profile description, but with a little bit more age and experience on him. He wore a suit, graying hair, and silver spectacles. A quick glance around the room proved a lot to catalogue. There were framed artworks both on the wall and lining the perimeter of the floor, leaning against the wall, in additional to dozen or more shipping cylinders for prints, as well as several other large boxes with contents unknown.

"Which one of you is Messier?" one member of the FBI team asked within seconds of entering.

This is where Peter's exasperation was briefly replaced by apprehension. If this guy didn't admit who he was, then Neal was also a question to these men. These agents didn't know Neal. He was no different than any other suspect.

Fortunately, the older man nodded quickly, acknowledging his identity without delay. "That's me. I'm Messier. What is this about?"

The agent continued as they had scripted the plan. "Sir, we'd like to take you in for some questions. And we have a warrant to search the premises."

Peter's eyes returned to Neal, letting the team go through the rehearsed lines mechanically. Neal returned the eye contact immediately. He stood with his hands now dropped down to his sides rather than raised. While he now looked calm and reserved on the outside to anyone that didn't know him, Peter could see the glint of trepidation in his eye. Good, Peter thought. Be scared. Mind working quickly, Peter didn't address him yet and shifted his attention back to the rest of the room. He gestured to the other FBI agents. He had to control he situation before dealing with Neal, so he swiftly began giving orders. "Two of you please escort Mr. Messier downstairs. The other, please begin inventory. Mr. Messier, we thank you in advance for your cooperation."

"I don't understand. Cooperation for what? What is this commotion for?" Messier insisted with a frown. He took on a natural appearance of innocence and confusion. He adjusted his glasses almost nervously. "Inventory for what purpose? This is my office. A place of business. I have permits."

"We'll discuss that downstairs," Peter responded. He gave an insistent look to one of the other FBI members, while also feeling thankful this Messier wasn't appearing to be a flight risk or combative. Even with docile backgrounds on paper, one could never be certain how a suspect would react when confronted. Given the lack of the team jumping into action, he decided to assign roles. "Jack? Can you please take Mr. Messier downstairs with Rob?"

'Jack' stepped in and promptly moved in to help escort the suspect out of the room. A second officer, 'Rob', after receiving a nod from Peter, swiftly followed him.

One agent remained, and Peter met his eye next and nodded. "Go through everything. Document, photograph, inventory it all. I don't care if it takes the entire goddamn day. Be thorough. Just like we discussed."

The agent nodded. "Yessir."

Peter turned back to Neal. "And you." He noticed Neal was still frozen in place and actually hadn't moved since they'd entered other than lowering his hands. "You come with me." With that he left the office.

He walked halfway down the hall by himself, taking a couple deep breaths before cursing under his breath. He paced briefly five feet one direction and then back the other with his hands on his hips. The red-hot surge of anger was back, and he clenched his fists. Then he waited, taking a moment to try to calm his breathing and his exterior reaction, back still turned from the office. He reminded himself to be collected, to be in control, and that they were still in the middle of a case, including apprehending a suspect.

It took just seconds after that for Neal to exit the office himself and catch up to him, and Peter heard it, both in the rapid footsteps and as instantly Neal began his defense. "Peter. Listen. I can explain. I was on my way back and—"

Peter turned around then, and narrowed his eyes. "Explain?" he echoed in a hiss. He interrupted the excuse, trying to keep his voice hushed so the others on the floor couldn't hear them. He didn't want to have this conversation here, in the open, but he couldn't yet just postpone it. And while he wanted to reach out and throttle his CI, he knew that wasn't the right thing to do at the moment either. They were in the middle of a goddamn case.

"What the hell's the matter with you, Neal? You had ten minutes. Ten minutes _only_. For _one_ thing. One stupid, goddamn thing." He then raised his wrist to point emphatically at his watch. "Do you see what time it is?"

"I know, Peter. I know. But –"

"You 'know?' Know _what_ , exactly?" Peter shook his head. He knew he had the habit of interrupting when he was angry, but couldn't help it. He didn't want to hear shallow excuses. There were no valid excuses here. "Why would you do that? Do you have any clue what position this puts you in? What position it puts _me_ in?"

"Peter, you have to understand," Neal objected, holding up his hands in an innocent gesture. "It's an open office. It's a business. They have advertising downstairs. An invitation to come up. Look, I even took a picture of it." He started to pull out his phone. "I was –"

"Open office? Invitation? No, Neal. _No_. _Not_ to you. Put your phone away." Peter waved his hand dismissively at the screen with the photo and Neal hesitated just a couple seconds before he pocketed it without protest. "What does that have to do with anything? I don't care if there were flashing neon signs inviting people in. You were given ten minutes. For something completely unrelated and something certainly _not_ in this building. Ten minutes, Neal," Peter insisted. "Not a free pass."

"I know." Neal exhaled in exasperation. "I know." He ran a hand through his hair.

"You keep saying that, but do you? Did you not already ask to go into this building? Hm? Did I not already tell you _no_?" Peter continued, voice terse. "Was I not clear?"

"You were clear," Neal admitted reluctantly. "You were. But—"

"Then what?" Peter stared at him directly. "What was the confusion? If I was so clear?" He then paused, eyeing Neal suspiciously. "What did you say to him?" He looked him up and down. "Did you take anything?"

Neal frowned. "What?"

"Did. You. Take. _Anything_ ," Peter repeated, emphasizing the words exasperatedly. "So help me God, Neal…"

"Peter, what would I take?" Neal voice rose slightly in defense and he gave him a quizzical look, brow furrowing.

"Do you know him?" Peter continued his questioning, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "Is there something you didn't tell me about Messier? Is that why you needed to get in there?"

Neal shook his head, eyes widening slightly as though surprised by the question. "No, Peter. I've never met him before. I promise. Honest."

"And is this is the 'long line' you referred to?" Peter gestured his hand to the office on the other end of the hall, a hall that was thankfully empty other than them. He was having trouble keeping his voice down. "Or was it a line in Times Square you were commenting on? Or maybe one for the Vatican?" Despite the sarcasm, Peter's tone was brusque. "Disney World?"

"No," Neal objected, shaking his head. "Really… It isn't like that, Peter." He suddenly sensed the painful discussion he'd just been thinking about on this topic close to repeating itself and tried to think of a way out of it. "It isn't like that at all, but I don't really want to get into a semantics conversation with you."

"Semantics?" Peter challenged. "Really?" He took a step closer to him. "Do you actually understand what lying is, Neal? Because sometimes your grasp of the concept is questionable. You need a reminder?"

"There _was_ a line there," Neal persisted. "But I… I was on my way back. I wasn't part of the line myself." He shook his head, bowing his head slightly, as though in disbelief he had admitted that. He then recovered and looked up with a more self-confident posture. "If you hear me out for a minute, Peter, I can explain. I just thought if I could meet him, it would help."

"You just _thought_ ," Peter repeated, voice agitated. Neal's proclivity for stating 'facts' only to use them to manipulate the situation was getting old. He needed to trust him, and he couldn't when the relationship continued to have these moments. Why did it have to be back to square one constantly? "Don't do this to me, Neal. Don't play games with words and excuses. You just _thought_ that you would completely ignore my order to come back in ten minutes?"

Neal paused and then shrugged. He shifted in his stance slightly. "Not ignore. I just thought ten minutes was more like a suggestion."

"A suggestion?" Peter felt his aggravation elevate to the next level. He took another step closer to him. "When I tell you to do something, you think it's a suggestion?"

"No, Peter. No. I just meant that instance," Neal persisted. He took a step back and found the wall behind him. That answer wasn't right. He felt it after he said it, and he could read it in Peter's expression. He tried to clarify. "Not the 'to-do' itself. Just the details on the framework. Specifically the details of timeframe," he rambled.

"The 'to-do' was to wash your hands and come back. Clearly it wasn't just 'details' you overlooked." Peter glared at him, and then glanced back over at the office of Messier. There were a million things he wanted to shout at Neal. He wanted to physically shake him. But they were on the job, and there was a case to keep progressing. He couldn't do this here. He had to concentrate. He had to make sure the statement they got from Messier made this worth it. He had to make sure the inventory they did was done right.

For the umpteenth time, he cursed.

He then pointed a finger at Neal, who now seemed entirely too focused on the tile floor beneath them more than Peter or anything else. "We are not done talking about this. Understand?" As Neal's head bobbed slightly with a nod, he continued. "Go downstairs. Wait for me at the van. If you are not there when I get there, you will be sorry."

Neal glanced downward towards the hall, at Messier's office. "What about all the art?"

Peter paused, caught off-guard for a moment at Neal's change in subject. Did he not take this seriously? Was he disregarding the seriousness of his inability to follow directions? Was he was just brushing off Peter's fury and was moving on to reinsert himself in the case? Peter felt further irritated. He clenched his fists together. "The art?" he repeated. "Really, Neal? The art?" He shook his head slowly and forced a tight smirk. "Not your problem now, Neal." He watched a quick but obvious look of frustration flash across Neal's face, before the kid went tightlipped and stoic again. "You have other things to worry about. Van. Now."

Neal turned from him and left, walking down the hall towards the elevators. Peter took a deep breath, praying for it to be palliative and closed his eyes, counting backwards from ten before starting to make his own way down the hall.

So much for a straightforward case.


	5. Chapter 5

A big thank you to those leaving reviews. It's really encouraging, and it's also really helping me get these chapters edited and posted. Thanks for the feedback. Hope you all enjoy this next installment.

* * *

An hour later, they were back at the FBI headquarters, walking out of the elevator onto their floor. Neal felt uncomfortable not knowing what would happen next. Peter had said barely a word to him since leaving the stakeout. Neal had dutifully waited at the van, almost twenty minutes, bored out of his mind but conscientious enough to know that even being across the street from the van would probably be enough of an indiscretion to throw Peter over the edge.

Neal didn't know why trying to take initiative during a case was such a reprehensible thing to do. He'd admit that he had _slightly_ mislead Peter about his intentions after going to the store, but then again, Peter had never _specifically_ asked him whether he was going to stop anywhere else before returning to the van. He'd only been focused on the time frame. Which, yes, admittedly Neal had ignored. But ignoring wasn't lying. Being late wasn't a _lie_.

It wasn't like Neal had gone on a detour for his own personal reasons. It was completely and utterly work related and in the best interest of the case. He would have been back in just a few more minutes.

Why hadn't Peter told him they were so close to getting the warrant?

He was just re-emphasizing this in his head, sorting out exactly what he would tell Peter in his continued defense, if Peter would even let him talk for once, when they walked onto the FBI floor.

He didn't have a chance to say anything before Peter spoke first. "Go wait in my office," he said.

Neal blinked. He hadn't been expecting that and he hesitated, looking at Peter uncertainly. "Why?"

"Do you need an escort?" Peter raised his eyebrows. "Don't question me. Just go. I'll be up in a minute."

Neal's stomach flip-flopped as he kept his expression passive. He paused a moment longer and then acquiesced and started to walk away. He glanced behind himself as he did so, and saw Peter head to the other side of the floor, not once stopping or looking back. With a sigh, Neal slowly made his way to Peter's office, taking the stairs unhurriedly, keeping his expression nonchalant.

When he entered his handler's office, he turned again for a moment to briefly scan the floor once more. He found Peter chatting with a couple other agents, back still turned to him. He watched them for a moment, but the conversation seemed in depth, not in passing. Neal took one more deep breath and then slowly exhaled as he took the couple of steps to the chair in front of Peter's desk.

He couldn't sit just yet and walked a couple more steps to the side of Peter's desk. He glanced at some pictures, looked at the window, and chewed on the inside of his lip. Then, still feeling restless, he took the few steps back and sat down resignedly, urging himself to feel anything but his current stat of somewhat uneasy. He preferred to control a situation and next steps. Waiting here, he felt a bit out of control.

He knew Peter was still mad at him, and knew there were words to go along with that, and he wasn't looking forward to it. Since their agitated discussion down the hall from Messier's office, Peter had only exchanged a few words with Neal, and mostly they were orders, which Neal followed quickly and quietly, not wanting to add any more fuel to the fire of Peter's aggravation. Peter's anger was usually short-lived, if not re-incensed, and repercussions were usually immediate and not drawn out, but Neal couldn't help but sometimes feel like the man might have a mental list, or maybe even a real written one, of all his transgressions and one day that wouldn't be the case.

He didn't like the twinge of anxiety he felt waiting. It made his stomach start to feel ill at ease.

He considered leaving. Right now Peter wasn't paying attention anyway. He could easily return to his desk, he could leave altogether… Tomorrow none of this would seem like a big deal.

His gut told him that was a bad idea. So he sat. Thinking.

He checked his phone a couple times. Mozzie had responded about the link he'd sent him to Messier's business. He read it briefly, scanning the information and some of the associated names before becoming distracted and sighing, putting the phone away.

As the clock ticked by, Neal was wondering if Peter was making him sit here alone on purpose. Maybe that was part of the punishment. Maybe he wanted him to go crazy with his thoughts.

He was only able to consider that for a moment before he sensed a presence behind him and turned his head in time to see Peter step through the doorway and shut the door behind him. The man slid off his suit jacket and hung it on the hook behind the door.

Door shut. That's not good, Neal pondered. He felt his heart sink to his stomach.

"Neal," came Peter's voice next. Neal wasn't sure why the way Peter said his name made him shiver slightly. He shifted himself to the edge of his chair as Peter walked around his desk to take his own seat. Neal had to admit he was relieved to have a desk between them but still kept himself stiffly on notice to bolt in case needed. If this was the last straw for Peter, this stupid thing, then he wasn't going to stick around to hear it.

Neal waited, staring at the papers on Peter's desk and not the man himself, but nothing happened. He could feel a heavy gaze on him. He hated it. It felt like he was transparent. He waited another moment and then finally Neal looked up and met Peter's eye. Sure enough it felt like the man was staring completely through him. He suddenly felt vulnerable, which he didn't like, not at all, and damn Peter for having that effect on him. He really didn't appreciate this feeling, and swallowed down the lump in his throat, looking behind him at the door before he could stop himself.

"Don't look at the door," Peter said in a solemn voice. "Look at me."

Feeling trapped, Neal slowly turned his head back and then folded his hands in his lap, keeping them still. He met Peter's eye again. This time he tried to ensure his face was masked. Passive. Like he didn't care. He'd been in much tougher negotiations and interrogations than his. But those had been coated with the elixir of adrenaline. This one, not so much.

"What, Peter?" he sighed.

"I told you we weren't done," Peter reminded.

Neal increasingly didn't like this feeling. While he veiled that from his expression, he couldn't camouflage what he actually felt inside. He didn't like being in this room. This room was four walls, and while one had a door, an option, he felt like it wasn't available. He wanted to rewind the day back to when he was getting coffee. Good coffee. As his mind jumped topics, and he tried to redirect himself to the explanations he'd crafted in his head, he couldn't help but break his silence abruptly. "Can you just get it over with?" he asked.

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Get what over with?"

"I don't know." Neal unfolded his hands again and then gestured one briefly in the air. "Whatever you're going to do. Just do it. I know you're mad that I didn't come directly back to the van. I had a good reason, but you don't get that, and I understand. I get your point, okay? So go ahead, have at it." Neal paused. Peter wasn't interrupting him like he'd expected. He wasn't responding at all. That made Neal gradually more restless. He sighed, feeling one of his legs start to bounce restlessly without his direction and then added, "I don't like when you just stare at me like that."

"Neal, it's not that simple." Peter shook his head. "And you don't get to dictate your consequences."

Neal rubbed his hands quickly over his face. Staying stoic was proving hard. Consequences. Was he going to hear all his despised words today? He sighed. "I'm sorry, okay? I thought I could help. You said you wanted my input on the case, but the only way I could do that is if I met the guy, and if I saw first hand what he was up to."

"That's not the only way for you to give input," Peter disagreed. "I told you 'no' in the van for a reason, Neal. When you listed all the other suggestions for what you could do and how you could get close to him… Don't you understand I told you no?"

"Yes. I do. To _those_ examples, but—"

"Then why did you go into the building?" Peter answered. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his desk, eyeing Neal with a look that was a mix of frustration, disappointment, and also strangely curiosity.

Neal didn't like when Peter was disappointed. It made him want to curl in on himself. How was he supposed to explain that he did what he did for the opposite effect of disappointment? He wanted to find something that would have been an asset to Peter in the case. Some epiphany that would cause a breakthrough. He wanted to somehow get an 'in' with this Messier guy and discover something, maybe another connection. They were bound to have _some_ connection. Something that would make Peter smile and look at him with impressed approval. He would tell him he was smart.

This was neither impressed nor approving. And he felt dumb and chastised, not smart.

"I told you why," Neal stated insistently. "I thought I could help if I met him."

"It didn't help, Neal. It hindered. It made me distracted. You ignored my calls. I didn't know where you were."

"Okay." Neal shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn't sure how to respond. Peter knew where he was now. It didn't seem like a big deal.

"A team doesn't do that, Neal. A team works together. Or it doesn't work at all." Peter paused then, waiting, but Neal stayed quiet. "Do you want to just sit at a desk, Neal? Pushing paper around?" Peter continued. "No time in the field?"

"No," Neal answered quickly. Surprised at the comment, he looked up to make eye contact. That wasn't what he wanted at all. Peter knew that. The part of the job he enjoyed was being in the field, being in the middle of a case and feeling something. Sitting at a desk was the worst part of the job. There was only so much reading and doodling one could do before going crazy. The FBI didn't cut him this deal to sit at a desk. They both knew that.

"Put yourself in my shoes then," Peter answered. "What would you do with a CI that never listens, always does whatever he wants, never follows orders, and goes off on his own during a case? Is that someone you would bring out on the field again?"

"That's not true," Neal objected, brow furrowing. "I do listen. Most of the time. I think 'never' is a bit of an exaggeration, Peter."

"Exaggeration, yes. That's fair," Peter agreed. "But the statement at its core isn't untrue, is it?"

Neal didn't know how to respond to that and continued frowning. "That's a double-negative."

Peter gave him a look. "Don't give me lip. Answer the question."

Neal didn't know how to answer the question so he continued to deflect. "I was stating a fact. Unlike you. Your statement's not true, Peter."

"You don't think so? Okay… So let's use today as an example, Neal. Did you go by the book?"

Neal didn't want to answer that. His initial response was to ask which book, and to try to get a smile, but Peter obviously was not in the mood for jest. He saw what Peter was trying to do. He was so narrow with his questions that of course it was going to make Neal look at his worst. Neal wanted to point out that being selective with examples was no different than omission of the truth. It was leading the conversation. He struggled to respond in a way that wouldn't incite the older man further. So instead, he clenched his hands into fists irritably, hidden from Peter's view behind the desk, and cut to the chase. "So what, then? Because of today you're not going to involve me in cases now?"

"I didn't say that," Peter answered calmly. "Let's talk about it."

"Talk about it? Come on, Peter. I only went in there to help," Neal answered. "That's the only reason. I thought I could get some information. You know once I can talk to the person that –"

"Neal, if any other CI did what you did today, they would be _done_ , do you understand me?" Peter responded tersely. "Done."

Neal rolled his eyes. "For walking into a public space? Seriously?"

"No, Neal," Peter answered impatiently. He leaned over the desk slightly. "I'm serious. At _least_ once a week you do something that would have caused other CI's agreements to be terminated without even a thought. I need you to understand that."

"Okay, Peter," Neal answered, having a hard time eliminating the sarcasm from his tone. He had literally walked into a place of business. No trespassing, nothing illegal… What was the big deal? He was late getting back to the van. What the hell? He suppressed the desire to state this out loud.

Peter continued on his own anyway. "What if he had a gun, Neal? This was a criminal investigation. You know that."

Neal pressed his lips together for a moment, frustrated, and then exhaled. "He didn't."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Not what I asked, Neal. I asked what if he did."

"He wouldn't have turned it on me," Neal answered with a shrug. "I was a potential customer."

"And what if he had it when the agents came in? What if he turned a gun on them?"

"None of that happened."

"Again, not what I asked, Neal," Peter responded stiffly. "What if he had a gun, and what if he drew it when the agents came into the room? What if there was a standoff, with guns drawn?"

Neal worked his jaw slightly, feeling his uneasiness heighten. He didn't answer. He didn't like a hypothetical interrogation. He could be equally imaginative with theoretical situations if Peter wanted to go down that route. However, he didn't have to respond because Peter kept going.

"What if I had to jeopardize the case and our team's safety because we didn't know you were in there?" Peter continued. "Did you ever think about that, Neal? Do you ever think about the potential consequences?" He paused. "Were you wearing a vest?"

Neal sighed and gave his handler a look. "No, Peter. And you know that."

"So tell me what would have happened. If –"

Neal grew impatient. "None of that happened. None of it. And a vest? Now you're being ridiculous. You didn't have one on either," Neal shot back. "The guy was harmless."

"God dammit, Neal!" Peter exclaimed, sitting back in his chair. He slapped an open palm on his desk in exasperation, and Neal flinched slightly at the sound of it. "Are you even listening to me? I need you to take this seriously."

"I _am_ ," Neal insisted.

"You better be. Or I mean it when I say you'll see nothing but your desk and a stack of papers, _or_ the end of this arrangement. Understand?"

"I do." Neal said the words quickly and automatically. He did mean it though. He wondered if Peter would really end their arrangement over something this stupid. He thought to remind him of their improved case completion percentage with combined efforts but refrained.

"You better understand." Peter softened his voice slightly. "You need to listen to me, Neal. You can't go off on your own. You're not trained for those situations. You're not an agent. You can't just put yourself in danger, even if you think you're helping. The Agency is supposed to keep you safe. But we can't if you constantly put yourself in harm's way. Especially when you put yourself somewhere that wasn't in the plan, where we don't know you're there."

"It wasn't dangerous," Neal responded softly.

"This time," Peter acknowledged. "Maybe that's true. But you didn't know that beforehand. No one ever does. And if you didn't realize that, then I'm disappointed because you're smarter than that. But you need to listen to me. If I tell you no, that means _no_. I have a reason. No matter what. The rules don't change when you're on your own."

"Do you want to end our arrangement?" Neal blurted out when Peter's rebuke took a pause. He couldn't help it as the concept continued to circulate his thoughts. He would feel really stupid if today was the tipping point for Peter to change his mind about their deal. After all, he'd done such worse things. Today was so minor in comparison. But maybe there really was that list. Of everything he had done. Everything that wasn't by Peter's book.

Peter paused, as though caught off guard by the query. The pause was enough for Neal to question his sentiment. But then Peter shook his head and responded, "No. Of course not, Neal. Do you?"

"No," Neal answered truthfully. "But I don't have many options. And things would be easier for you."

Peter actually smirked then. "Yeah," he admitted. "Quite a bit easier. But don't you think making you stick to a desk job would also make my life easier?"

"No," Neal disagreed quickly, narrowing his eyes at Peter slightly. He certainly did not want the arrangement to turn into that. And if it did, he would _not_ make it easy. Good luck getting him to sit at a desk all the time. Peter might as well put him back in prison if that were the case.

Peter seemed to catch the innuendo that Neal implied and looked at him quizzically. As he was about to respond, he was interrupted by a firm knock on the door. They both looked to the door then, Neal turning in his chair to angle his view towards it, and both turned quiet as Hughes opened the door without waiting for a response.

"Am I interrupting something?" Hughes asked dryly, as though noticing the tension in the room. He first looked at Peter, then briefly at Neal before returning his gaze to Peter.

"No, sir," Peter answered easily. He cleared his throat. "Neal and I were just discussing some of the aspects of the case today."

Hughes nodded. "Good. Well, speaking of that case, nice job getting Messier in for questioning without any hiccups. The question I had for you was, who was the other unsub?"

Neal wasn't sure what 'unsub' meant and shifted his position, glancing at Peter to gauge his reaction.

Peter's face was emotionless. "The other, sir?" he asked.

"Yes. Your guys from Cyber said there were two people in the office when they arrived. One was Messier, but who was the other? Someone we need to consider as well? Some acquaintance of his?"

As Peter paused, Neal suddenly felt a pang of apprehension. The other person had been him. He wasn't sure how to explain it officially to someone like Hughes, since it wasn't at all official, and he shouldn't have been there, but he didn't want to have to have Peter explain it. He hated that this was suddenly making Peter's reprimand that much more pertinent. He hesitated on the wording to use, but then quickly started to chime in. "That was –"

"No one of interest," Peter interjected, shooting Neal a silencing look. The look was brief but poignant. He then looked up to the doorway at Hughes again. He was completely calm and passive. "There was one other person present when we arrived. I questioned him briefly when the others took Messier into custody. He was not suspicious at all and was there only to ask about the services offered. He had just arrived to the office moments before."

"So he walked," Hughes surmised.

"Yes," Peter affirmed.

"Okay," Hughes responded slowly. "You get his name? Just put that all in the report. Last thing I need is another loose end out there related to this guy."

Neal continued to stare at Peter, not caring if it meant his back was to Hughes. Why would Peter lie for him? The conversation continued for another minute, but Neal couldn't hear them. He was instead listening to the pounding sound of his heart in his head and trying to figure out whether Peter was still mad at him or not. After all, he was covering for him. Maybe he was doing this to then be even more mad after, because Neal had put him in this situation.

When Hughes finally left, Neal hadn't even noticed. He was still deep in his thoughts.

It wasn't until Peter jolted him back to reality. " _Neal_ ," he said, stressing new syllables into his name.

"Yes," Neal answered quickly. He forced himself to focus and to meet Peter's eyes. He kept his eyes narrowed, attentive but also a bit confused. "What?"

"You with me?" Peter asked.

"Yes," Neal repeated. "Why did you –"

"I didn't," Peter cut him off and shook his head dismissively.

Neal frowned. "But… You said…"

"Were you someone of interest?" Peter asked.

"Uh…" Neal hesitated and then replied, "No."

"Did I question you?"

Neal paused before responding. "You could say that."

"Did I let you walk?"

Neal shrugged. "Yeah. I guess?"

"So, where was the lie, Neal?"

"I didn't say you lied."

"I know what you were thinking."

Neal paused and cocked his head to the side. Somehow Peter always knew what he was thinking. "I feel like this is an example of a manipulation of the truth."

"You really want to go down that path with me?" Peter raised his eyebrows.

"No," Neal admitted.

"That's what I thought." Peter studied Neal across the table. "You understand everything we just talked about?"

Neal nodded.

"Good." Peter rubbed hand across his jaw as if pondering his next statement. He then cleared his throat and continued speaking. "You add value to the cases, Neal. You do. You think about things in ways I wouldn't. That's why we work… But you can't be a liability. If I start to think you're going to be a liability, then no more cases."

"But what if—"

"There is no 'what if,'" Peter interjected. Noticing the face Neal started to make in response he added, "You want me to ask Hughes his opinion?" As Neal shook his head emphatically, Peter couldn't help but give into his curiosity. He sighed. "Then what were you going to ask? What if, what?"

Neal shrugged. "I was just going to ask… What if I just always wore a vest. Then you wouldn't have to consider each time whether I could–"

"Enough. Stop." Peter shook his own head. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?" Neal objected.

"That's a non-starter, Neal." Peter pointed at his door. "Get out of my office. Go back to your desk." Blue eyes continued to gaze back at him and Peter pointed more ardently. "Go. I'm not changing my mind. If you listened to everything I just said, then you don't need a vest. What you need is more paperwork. And you have a bunch of it on your desk."

Neal gave him one last cynical look before pushing back his chair and getting to his feet to leave. But then he turned back, expression thoughtful, chewing on his lip slightly. "One more thing, Peter."

"What?" Peter eyed him in exasperation.

"This." Neal reached into his back pocket and withdrew a wallet. He paused for a moment and then tossed it onto Peter's desk. "Thought you should have this."

Peter continued to look at him skeptically as he reached across his desk to grab the leather wallet. He flipped it open. Eyed the ID in the first pocket. Messier.

He glared back up at his CI immediately. "Neal," he said through gritted teeth. "You said you didn't take anything." Neal hovered in the doorway, giving him a half apologetic and half ready-to-flee look.

"Not quite," Neal immediately objected.

"No? I asked you. Specifically if you took anything." Peter felt himself running out of patience. He slowly stood from his desk. He wanted to throttle his partner.

"You did ask, yes… But I asked back what you thought I would take," Neal shot back. "You didn't follow-up."

"Follow-up…" Peter echoed, shaking his head in disbelief. He moved around his desk, shortening the distance between them. "You want a follow-up?" He glanced down at the wallet in front of him again, taking one more look. He then took a deep, frustrated breath. This kid was going to be the death of him. "Neal." He spoke as he looked up, ready to unveil a series of threats.

But the kid was gone. Peter caught the view of him hightailing it down the stairs from his office, back across the floor to his own desk.

He cursed under his breath. He didn't know what to do. Even shortening his radius wouldn't have prevented today's headache.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter spent most of the remaining afternoon at his desk, focused on paperwork and waiting to hear an update on the Cyber Crimes interrogation of Messier. He'd get his own chance at talking to the man a little bit later. Of course they got first dibs, he thought disdainfully. Truth be told, it was technically their case. White Collar had been brought in later, to help them. And they had. They'd connected the last few dots needed to make a case for the warrant and to intercept a delivery in process. And while they were a supporting department on the investigation, it still Cyber's case. He had Diana over at the interrogation keeping an eye on things at the moment as he wrapped things up at the office.

Peter sighed and tapped his pen distractedly on his desk. He still felt angry. After looking forward to working this particular case with Neal, he now had a headache. He should have never let him out of the van to his own devices, but there was no going back now. Why'd the kid have to be so damn impulsive? And why hadn't he predicted it, when the questions in the van beforehand only made it clear as day that Neal wanted into that building? Didn't he know his CI's behavior at this point?

In all honesty, he really had looked forward to working with his CI on this one. For a few reasons. First, he knew the younger man was getting pretty restless from the last few cases given their lack of excitement, though he acknowledged Neal had done a decent job of acting like that wasn't the circumstance. But Neal was not one to keep his nose buried in papers for too long. Sooner or later he'd need something to tide over his insatiable need for some sort of exploit. Exciting cases didn't turn up on a daily basis, and perhaps that was a good thing considering they were tied to crime, but when they did show up and included characteristics where Neal could add value, it could be a win-win. No amount of being told 'good job' related to mortgage cases would satiate Neal's need for something to get his mind really working out in the field. Peter knew that the hard way.

Next, there was a ton of art to canvas. The quantity and quality of the full inventory was unknown. They were getting the guy on the fakes. Didn't mean he hadn't acquired some real pieces in his endeavors. And those could have been acquired a variety of ways, legal or otherwise. Neal could quickly help them identify which pieces were what, and where they should target the next stage of the investigation. Including any themes or patterns with the forgeries themselves. If there was a consistent forger to these pieces, that would take a direct focus of the investigation.

Of course Neal hadn't even allowed them to get to that interesting part of the investigation before stepping out of line.

Peter glanced down through the glass walls of his office at the bullpen below. Neal was dutifully at his desk, head bowed over papers himself, resting his chin on his fist. He was writing something with his other hand on the piece of paper. Or drawing. The longer Peter watched, the more he was certain he was drawing, and he sighed.

Now he was torn, feeling two competing agendas in his head. On one hand, he still wanted Neal with him on this case. He wanted his input, he wanted to see him light up at the ability to show off his knowledge on the art, and he wanted to see what linkages he could draw. Neal could really shine on this. He could be a great partner.

On the other hand, Neal had completely ignored orders and had almost compromised the case immediately upon getting involved. How could he just let him continue with the case, business-as-usual, without any penalties? He knew Neal hated to be lectured, but he wasn't sure that was enough of a consequence. He also knew that Neal was good at putting up a wall when needed, and having very little penetrate that wall. Though the threat of desk duty for a prolonged amount of time did seem to send a message…

He also knew not involving Neal would raise questions, specifically from Hughes. They had spoken already about how this case was right up Neal's alley. While Hughes had no idea some of the stunts Neal had pulled during his CI engagement so far, he did generally leave it to Peter to manage him, from anything including choice of cases and discipline. Still, given the previous discussions on this case and Neal's ability to add value, Hughes would be suspicious why Peter would suddenly have a change of heart.

After toying further with Neal's involvement in the case and balancing his internal conflict on the topic, he was about to turn back to his own paperwork in front of him when the phone rang.

He reached for it and cleared his throat before picking up the receiver. "Burke," he answered.

"Boss. It's me," came Diana's voice over the line.

"Hey," Peter responded, leaning back his chair and running a hand over the back of his head. "What do you have? Any news?"

"The guy's not talking much…" Diana said slowly. "And before you point fingers, it's not the interrogators. They're actually doing a pretty damn good job." She paused. "For Cyber, anyway."

"But he's not talking, even though he knows what we've got on him?"

"Not once his lawyer showed up," she answered. "He knows the basics of what we've got, but he's still playing hardball. Says he's only the administrator of the office. Takes orders. Manages the website. Answers phones. You know. Not the man behind the scenes."

"Yeah, but everything's in his name."

"For administrative purposes… He says he doesn't even know art that well," she continued. "And maybe he's telling the truth. I mean, remember the guy's degree is in political science, Peter. Not art history. He actually seems somewhat genuine."

"Doesn't take an art history degree to know art…" Peter worked his jaw. "Or even a degree at all. Look at Neal." He paused. "Anyway. They better keep working him. He knows what his own damn business was doing. And if there's someone else at play here, then we better find them too."

"We're on it." She paused again. "Oh, and one more thing, Boss."

"Yeah?"

"Speaking of the art, I meant to tell you the next steps on what they got. They're going to start taking all the pieces from his office today, once they're catalogued, over to the evidence warehouse in Long Island City. I'll send you the exact address later tonight. But they might not be able to move it all today."

Peter frowned. "What do you mean they can't move it all today?"

"It's a lot, Peter. It's taking a lot of time to catalogue. And—"

"Well, then they can do that when it's moved. I don't want anything left there tonight."

"You said it yourself, Boss. Nothing gets moved before it's catalogued. We gotta know everything we got before it's in a transport."

Peter let out an exasperated breath. He _had_ said that. And it was because it was right. He tried to control his impatience. "Okay." He sighed. "Well, tell them to move as fast as they can."

"They are. But they have to do the photos, and brief descriptions, and keep it all organized. And some of these guys can barely describe their own wives' faces, Boss, never mind a Picasso."

Peter rolled his eyes, but smirked slightly. "Alright. I get it." He picked up his pen again to tap it on his desk impatiently. "Look, if that's the case, we need a detail on the Messier office tonight. Until everything's secure in our warehouse, we can't risk any of his other partners, if there are any, setting foot in there. You've gotta turn that place into Fort Knox."

"Two steps ahead of you, Boss."

He smiled. Someone he could always rely on. "Thanks as always, Diana." He glanced at his watch. "I'm going to leave in in a few minutes to head over there." He estimated the timing in his head. That way he'd have time to catch-up with the team, take a look at Messier himself, maybe even question him, and still be home for dinner before Elizabeth got annoyed at another late night.

"Sounds good. I'll see you then."

They ended the call and Peter pushed back the chair from his desk, sending one last look of disregard to the papers that sat on its surface. Those papers would still be there for him tomorrow. He then collected his jacket from the hook on his door and walked out, slipping it on one arm at a time as he made his way down the stairs.

The office was less energized than that morning, but there were still a half dozen agents busy at or around their desks.

He made his way over to Neal's desk slowly as he straightened his jacket over his shoulders. Neal was still focused on the paperwork at his desk, however his posture had changed from being hunched over the work to now being slouched back in his chair, a pen in his mouth rather this his hand, reading a single piece of paper in front of him, held between two fingers. It was hard to tell if he was in fact reading it or simply pretending.

The paper lowered slowly as Peter approached, as though he sensed the presence or had been discreetly watching all along. Peter eyed him warily as Neal put the paper down on the desk. As a beat passed, Neal said nothing, but his eyes were guarded, icy blue. The pen hung from between his lips like a cigarette in an old western. Then it moved slightly as he started to chew on it ever so faintly.

Peter watched the mannerisms and realized Neal thought he might still be angry so he was being cautious. That was fine with Peter, because he was still mad. He was frustrated as hell. And tired. Too tired. But he hadn't actually come over there to be mad. He didn't have time to be mad if he was going to do what he needed to do and get home in time for dinner. So he tried to approach it differently.

"You know, after a day like yours," Peter started slowly, "I don't think I'd hold a pen like that. Not sure ink on your face or in your mouth is a look you'd want to go for."

Neal gave him a sarcastic look in response but removed the pen from his mouth anyway and set it on the desk. "No, I suppose not," he said without missing a beat. "Might clash with my tie."

"Unless you're looking for an excuse to step out of the office and trespass somewhere, obviously…" Peter continued, giving a bit of a patronizing look while keeping the tone of the comment slightly teasing.

Neal looked up Peter again and tilted his head slightly. "I didn't do that on purpose." He shifted in his chair.

"The ink or the trespassing?" Peter asked. He paused. "Or the pickpocketing?"

Neal's expression grew more guarded then, and he picked up the piece of paper from his desk once more, studying it as though it was suddenly much more interesting than their conversation. "Didn't we already have this discussion, Peter?" he said, more to the piece of paper than to his handler.

"I don't think we actually really finished it." Peter reached out and took the piece of paper from him, turning it to see what was on it. An alphabet. He frowned, studying the characters. He recognized it. "This is…"

"The Cyrillic alphabet," Neal muttered. He grabbed the paper back and gave Peter a look that was somewhat annoyed but also partially sheepish. "Some of the art today. I recognized it."

"Okay…" Peter said slowly, studying Neal thoughtfully.

Neal cleared his throat and shifted again in his chair, restless. "You look like you're going somewhere."

"I am." Peter glanced towards the exit doors not far from Neal's desk. "I need to head out now to check on how things are going so far with the case."

"Where?"

Peter pressed his lips together briefly. "Not far…" he responded slowly. "Going to go over to see how the Messier interrogation is going."

Neal sat up a little straighter. He put the piece of paper down on the desk again, full attention back to Peter, eyes bright. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Diana's over there now." Peter watched Neal's expression turn into something that hinted at hopeful and waited for it.

"So let's go," Neal said, as if that was the most logical plan of attack.

"Us?" Peter shook his head. "Nope. No us." As he saw Neal begin to frown, he raised his eyebrows at him. "Forgetting something, Neal? He saw your face."

"Yeah, but –"

"Nope." Peter raised his hand to cut him off. "You did something unofficial, so you can't come back in as official now. Not with him. Not while we're trying to get answers." As he watched Neal's expression turn further morose, he continued. "What did you think, Neal? You could waltz in and return his wallet to him?"

Neal paused, sinking back into a slouch on the chair again, eyes darting behind Peter for a few seconds before returning his gaze with solid eye contact. "Peter, I'm sorry about the wallet. I shouldn't have taken it."

Peter blinked, studying Neal briefly. The blue eyes were clear and his expression was more nonchalant than contrite, but still it was a form of Caffrey apology. "I didn't actually come over here to talk about the wallet, Neal," Peter admitted. "Though you know I'm not happy about it."

Neal nodded, still leaning back in his chair. "That's why I'm sorry."

Peter then felt frustrated. _You're sorry because it's wrong, or because I'm not happy?_ he wondered silently to himself. He almost asked the question, but wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. He started to think maybe they _should_ talk about the wallet. He hadn't really addressed it. And it wasn't okay, pickpocketing on a whim. He was tired of lecturing, but if he ignored it, Neal might think it wasn't a big deal, and it _was_ a big deal.

Before he could decide on whether to say something, Neal interrupted his thoughts. "What about the art?" he asked. "In his office? Can I look at it while you go over there?"

Peter eyed Neal carefully. Neal looked a little too eager. "Don't worry about the art for now. It's being handled." He glanced again at his watch.

Neal set his jaw impatiently. "By who?" he persisted.

Peter paused. He felt only slightly remorseful that he wanted everything catalogued, at least with cursory details, before Neal got anywhere near any of the inventory. The fact Neal had already picked up on the Cyrillic alphabet being used in certain pieces he must have seen for only seconds had him cautious. "It's being handled," he repeated. "Look, Neal, if you'd played by the rules, you could be coming with me right now. But you went rogue, remember? So you've gotta sit this one out. At least for now."

Neal didn't look happy about that, but he seemed to accept it resignedly and didn't argue. "Are you coming back here?"

"Today? No, Neal. I've got to make it home to El tonight."

Neal continued to look unhappy, not masking his sentiments. "And what about tomorrow?" he asked skeptically.

"Am I coming to the office tomorrow?" Peter smirked. "Yes."

"No. Not you." Neal shook his head with moderate frustration. "Me. What am I supposed to do if you don't want me on this case?"

"Neal, there is plenty of mortgage fraud to go around."

"I'm serious."

"I know. And in all seriousness, I did – I mean, I do, want you on this case," Peter corrected. He decided in the interest of time to be upfront with Neal, rather than playing the difficult angle. He didn't have time to argue about it. "And you will be on it. In some capacity. I'll let you know when." Peter wasn't fully confident in that, or at least not too sure the right way to keep him involved at the moment, but he felt the need in the interest of time to at least appease Neal in order to get out the door. He sighed, and then glanced at his watch yet again. He needed to get going and this could easily be a short or very long discussion. "Look, Neal. You want to prove to me that you can play by the rules?"

"Depends," Neal answered slowly.

Peter gave him a look, a little surprised. "Neal…" he admonished.

"What?" Neal's voice rose defensively, giving Peter a disconcerted look, blue eyes widening. "Wait, so in this instance, you _want_ me to lie?" He looked slightly exasperated. "It _does_ depend. I don't know what you're going to say I should do."

"What do you think I— Never mind…" Peter brushed off the comments and his urge to address them with a shake of his head and continued. "How about this, Neal… Finish up here. Go home. Stay home. No running around tonight. If—"

"Running around?" Neal echoed, rolling his eyes. "What's that even mean, Peter?"

"It means stay home tonight." Peter came up with the request in the moment, realizing it was perfectly fitting. If he didn't have to worry about Neal, and Neal proved his compliance to rules, then it was a mutually beneficial evening.

"Stay home," Neal repeated.

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Can you do that?"

Neal eyed him quizzically. "Why?"

Peter sighed. "To prove to me that you can. That you can listen. Because I'm telling you to."

Neal's expression was disconcerted. "Or else what?"

Peter continued to stare at Neal, at those deep blue eyes, which on one hand sucked him in and on the other hand made him so frustrated. "You need to know the consequence before agreeing to follow an order?"

"Just wondering," Neal mumbled as he shifted in his seat. Eye contact was now gone once again.

"Why? Do you think I ask Hughes 'or what' each time he asks me to do something?"

"No," Neal admitted halfheartedly. He picked the pen back up from the desk and returned it to his mouth.

"Do you think Diana or Jones ask me that each time I ask them to do something?"

Neal sighed in exasperation, clearly regretting having asked. He leaned back further in his chair, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. "No."

"Damn right the answer is no. But since _you_ apparently need a consequence," Peter continued, "how about—"

Neal tilted his head back down and removed the pen from his mouth, looking at Peter deliberately. "I don't."

"Too late," Peter responded back dryly. "And I think you do. How about this. Stay at home tonight. Prove to me you can stay in one place because I tell you to. If not, your next week has nothing to do with this case or any other one. It's going to be spent re-filing records in the stacks."

Neal eyed him critically, brow furrowing just slightly. "I don't know how to do that."

"Why are you assuming you'll have to?" Peter answered, raising his eyebrows. At Neal's continued look, Peter simply shook his head and said. "You're smart. You'll learn. Or be smarter, and do as you're told." He glanced at his watch again. "I need to go. I'll see you tomorrow, Neal."

"Bye, Peter."

Peter resisted looking back to gauge Neal's expression as he quickly walked to the exit. Please listen to me, Neal, he thought earnestly.


	7. Chapter 7

I think my prior update of 2 chapters within a few days of each other was a record for me, but I am going to try to keep the weekly update momentum. :)

A very big thanks to everyone still reading this story and especially to those who left comments and feedback. That's incredibly motivating and I am appreciative. I think I might have lost a few readers but hope most are still with me. There is more action on the way! I am piecing together two stories I had here so it's taking me some time to edit. Hopefully I interweave them successfully.

* * *

Peter arrived to the other building where Messier was being held for interrogation expecting to look for Diana. He was surprised upon walking into the office to immediately find Hughes.

"Sir," he greeted. "I didn't know you were headed here."

"Thought I would check on the status of the case as well… Seems to be heating up quite a bit," was Hughes response. "Where's Caffrey?"

Peter paused, a little surprised at the question. He studied his boss's face for a moment and found nothing but the typical solemnness and hard edges. Hughes didn't seem to be suspecting Neal of something; he was simply asking his whereabouts. "Neal's back at the office. He had some paperwork to finish. Why, sir?"

"Just wondering," Hughes answered slowly. He glanced behind him at the rest of the office, which was very similar to their own, but smaller and more dated, and then turned back to Peter. "This Messier character… He's hiding something."

Peter frowned, eyeing the older man quizzically. What else had happened? he wondered. "Yeah… Uh, Diana mentioned he wasn't opening up much."

"At all," Hughes responded stiffly. "And the pressure is on. Look, Peter, I think there is something else going on here. I think he has a bigger network than he's letting on, and we need to find out who they are and who else they are connected to. The amount of artwork this guy had in that office… He doesn't work alone. And that's where I think Neal may be an asset."

"Neal…" Peter echoed.

"We need to find out what's going on now that we have Messier in custody. Someone is going to want to know where this art is. If it's going to be compromised. Especially if any of it is real. And the funds behind it, because if he's the only one on the accounts, they have a problem. At the least they're going to want to wrap up any loose ends."

"We're in the process of cataloguing the art," Peter answered. "And then the plan is to have Neal take a look at it, so that we can confirm what we actually have on our hands."

"Good. But keep him behind the scenes for now, Peter. I think we're going to need to have him play a role here. And we can't have him smelling like a CI if that's going to work. Did Messier see him today?"

Peter paused, musing briefly on the irony of Hughes' question. "Not in FBI capacity," he responded carefully. "He saw him, but he doesn't know he's with us." Hopefully, he thought wryly. And he left out that Neal had actually spoken to him already.

"And what do you think about him going undercover on this one? He's done it a few times, without too much trouble, and with good results…" Hughes pressed his lips together briefly. "Not going to deny that it makes me nervous as hell anytime that anklet comes off though…. There's a lot of temptation. Do you think you can handle him on this one? Make sure he's following our rules?"

Peter kept his expression blank. His internal debate on Neal's involvement returned in full force, but he couldn't share that with Hughes. "Possibly, sir. Depending on the circumstances it could make a lot of sense to get him in there." At the same time the words left his mouth, his conscience was warning him to be cautious. He had no way of expressing to Hughes without raising suspicion that he hadn't fully decided whether Neal's involvement on the case was still a good idea.

Can he be handled? Can he follow the rules? Peter wished he could commit to that. Those should be simple questions. That was the whole arrangement, after all. It was his goddamn job to keep the kid in line.

"Okay, good. Let's talk a little bit more about this with the team, and see what we get from Messier in the next couple hours. Then we'll think about what backstory might make sense for Neal and get him coached. Might take a couple days to sort out." Hughes rubbed a hand over his jaw. "Can't rush this, but can't wait too long either… We can't let this guy slip through the cracks. Not with what is at stake here. We have over two hundred confirmed victims of fraud here across the states."

"I agree, sir. We're on it. One other thing… Depending on how the questioning goes, it's sounding like we're not going to be able to keep Messier in custody, are we…?" Peter asked slowly, digesting the summary of what he'd heard so far from Diana and Hughes. They had enough to take this guy in, and they had the right to search and document the entire inventory at the office, but they probably didn't have enough to hold him in custody too long before he was assigned and made bail. They needed to really think through what they would actually charge him with. And they weren't at that stage yet. The company itself was obviously involved in criminal activity, but Messier's personal involvement still needed to be proved.

"Not sure yet," Hughes admitted. "That's why we need to think fast, and think smart. We let him go and he's likely to disappear relatively soon. And then the whole company walks."

Peter nodded. "Okay. I understand. Let me talk to Diana and to the team. We'll decide what to do next."

"Okay. Good. I need to get out of here." Hughes glanced at his watch and sighed. "Let's plan to debrief in the morning. You'll coordinate?"

"Sounds good, sir." Peter nodded. His mind shifted to Neal and the direction he had given him for the rest of the night. He really hoped Neal listened and took his words to heart. Because it would really send a counterintuitive message for Neal to completely disregard the order, do his own damn thing again, and then be rewarded with going undercover.

He debated giving Neal a heads up about the undercover role. Perhaps that would be enough motivation dangled over him. But at the same time, he needed the night to think about whether it would make sense to put him on this case. Whether he was simply rewarding his impulsiveness.

Peter closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath, and then went to look for Diana.

Stay home.

Prove to me you can.

Neal sighed. He was restless. And anxious. Just as he had been for most of the day.

Peter's words echoed in his head. He realized now in hindsight, begrudgingly, that he had essentially just agreed to be grounded for the evening, and he was annoyed with himself for not realizing that earlier. If he had, he could have pointed out the ridiculousness to Peter. He wasn't a child. Peter couldn't tell him what to do in his spare time.

And he hadn't really _agreed_ to it, if he thought back to the conversation. He hadn't verbally _committed_ to staying home.

Somehow he knew that sort of excuse probably wouldn't go over well, and he told himself to stop going down that alternative route of justifications. Why was he already coming up with defenses for actions he hadn't taken yet? He wasn't going to be able to psychoanalyze the conversation into something that meant Peter wouldn't follow through with sticking him in the file room for a week if he didn't comply. And he didn't want that or a fight about it. Now staying home was kind of more than just a request. It was a challenge to him. A stupid one.

And because of that, he had to stay home. Because he wanted to start the next day on a clean slate. Or as clean a slate as he would be allowed at least. Since the afternoon, Neal's mind had been focused on Peter's comments about whether he could be trusted. Whether he was someone to bring out in the field. Whether he was a liability. If he did something away from home tonight, Peter would easily just point to that as a reason why he couldn't be trusted. Because he couldn't comply with even a simple request, stupid as it was.

Peter's comments about sitting at a desk for the rest of their agreement continued to resonate with Neal as well. That couldn't happen. That wouldn't be good for either of them. But Neal knew he couldn't address the threat with Peter, because any indication that the warning was alarming to Neal would only entice the man to potentially use it as a tool. He might actually follow through.

Sitting at a desk was torture. Even the most beautifully crafted desk, which he certainly did not have, was no more than a wooden anchor.

He needed to be out on the field, actually making an impact, or doing something that felt involved…. feeling something.

"You've been staring into that glass of Cabernet for a good five minutes, Neal."

Neal blinked, suddenly finding himself back in the current moment sitting at the table in his apartment, and gazed across it at his friend Mozzie, who was peering at him with skepticism through his glasses. "Sorry," Neal said instinctively. His thoughts had taken over yet again. Mozzie had been telling him some sort of story, and he hadn't even heard half of it.

"For?" Mozzie responded. "I know I can be a less than stellar story-teller, Neal, but what's on your mind? I thought you wanted to talk about the new case."

"I thought too…" Neal responded slowly. He reached for his glass of wine and swirled it gently, watching the liquid spin in the glass. "I don't even know if I'm on it or not." He took a long sip. "Like I said, Peter's not exactly happy."

"Is he ever?"

Neal glanced up at Mozzie briefly and smirked. He could always count on Moz. After a pause, the smirk faded and he again fell into his thoughts. "The problem is… I wasn't exactly truthful with him."

"The van?" Mozzie waved a hand in the air dismissively. "Who cares, Neal? You didn't compromise the case. He'll get over it. You've done worse."

Neal pressed his lips together, glancing briefly at Mozzie and then looking across his apartment. "Not the van." Yes, he'd done worse, but that also wasn't really a valid excuse to Peter.

"Then what?"

Neal took another sip of wine and then set the glass down on the table and sat back into his chair in a slouch. "He asked me if I knew Messier. I said no."

"Do you?"

"I've never _met_ him before," Neal replied. "That's true. But I'm pretty sure I do _know_ him."

"Pretty sure?" Mozzie took a sip of his own wine and raised his eyebrows. "Do tell, mon frère," he said. "I don't recognize his name… Some of the names I found when digging into the link you sent me, yes. But not him."

"It's… complicated," Neal responded slowly.

"In which way?"

"I…." Neal paused, taking a deep breath. "I'm fairly certain I used to work for him… Not directly. That wasn't his name then. But when I saw the picture in the case file, he looked a little familiar, and the description of the activity was spot on... I knew it was too much of a coincidence. I had to meet him in person just to be sure once I heard his voice and –"

"When was this?" Mozzie insisted, frowning. "What did you do for him?"

Neal shrugged. "Same thing. Forgeries. His operation wasn't as big then. Maybe ten years ago."

"But you never met him in person."

"Never," Neal confirmed. "He wouldn't recognize me. The name, maybe. I mean, not _Neal._ But… Another name. I had another contact that worked for him that I went through. And a few times I spoke to him on the phone."

"Ten years ago. And you never met him. And he doesn't know your name. So why do you look like you're having an existential crisis?"

"Because, Moz…" Neal sighed. "I didn't tell any of this to Peter."

"Is it relevant?"

"Yes, it's relevant. Obviously."

"Why? You're not currently connected to him."

"Well other than having some information on this guy that could help the case…" Neal continued, "I'm…." He paused. "I'm afraid some of the work he has might be mine."

Mozzie looked at him across the table for a moment and then laughed. "You're kidding."

Neal stared back, deadpan. "No. I created a lot of pieces for him."

"That's classic." Mozzie shook his head. Then noticing his friend's morose expression, sighed. "Neal. Shake it off. The Suit won't know. What are you scared of?"

"I'm not scared." Neal paused. He was. And he couldn't quite explain it to Mozzie. This feeling of guilt. Conscience. Or dread of lectures? If he called Peter now, and told him…. what would the reaction be? He should have probably told him right away, but he wasn't even sure it was the same person until he heard his voice. And at that point, he had already racked up enough infractions to stir up the wrath of Peter.

He hadn't lied. That was true. But he'd left out a pretty damn big detail. And he trusted Peter, right? So why wouldn't he have told him? Peter would wonder what else he was hiding. He wanted to tell him. He'd rather not have this looming over him. And maybe it could help the case. But the question kept repeating in his head. What would Peter's reaction be?

Maybe he'd smile. Maybe he'd feel they had a case. Neal had an 'in'. He was valuable. He could jump right in, take on an undercover role, and get everything they needed to nail this guy. He could really drive the case home. Neal was really hopeful that this would be the case, and he could make Peter proud of him and what he could contribute. But an edge of worry overshadowed that scenario.

Maybe he wouldn't smile. Maybe he'd frown and get that look he got when he was angry. Maybe he'd point out once again where Neal wasn't being upfront with him. Why hadn't he told him earlier? This was proving he was a liability. That he couldn't be trusted. That he was hiding things. Maybe he'd add it to the list. The list… How much room was on the list?

If he didn't tell him, would he find out? If he was going to know, the longer Neal waited to tell him, the worse the aftermath would be. Would this be the last stupid thing on this stupid list?

"Earth to Neal."

Neal looked to Mozzie. "Sorry," he said again.

"I don't get it, Neal."

Neal paused in his response and then admitted, "I'm distracted. I'm not sure what to do."

"Well, I shared what I have…" Mozzie gestured to a folder on the table, which he'd brought with him. It contained the information he was able to dig up from Messier's website, and what the domain was linked to. Everything from the billing address that paid for the website, traffic stats, and more. "You could start with that."

"Thanks, Moz," Neal answered. His brow furrowed and his hand returned to his wine glass. "I will."

"You worry too much about the Suit, Neal," Mozzie continued. "You look like you're a million miles away."

Neal shrugged. "I just… I feel a little anxious I guess."

"Over this?" Mozzie shook his head skeptically. "Neal, you're letting them get into your head too much. They need you more than you need them. He doesn't control you. What'd I teach you?"

Neal rolled his eyes and then cast his gaze out the window. He knew Mozzie's reaction was going to be something along those lines. He didn't get it. He didn't understand what he had with Peter. What there was at stake to lose if he kept messing up. If he kept being seen as a liability. "I know, Moz…" he sighed.

"So toughen up."

Toughening up meant more wine. So Neal took another sip.

"And tell me about this guy," Mozzie continued. "You never met him, but what do you know?"

"It was a long time ago," Neal started. "I mostly dealt with a partner of his. Jason Hilks. I don't know if they're still connected. Messier went by the name Ray Desmond then. I don't know which name is real. Maybe neither. They were a small operation then. He had a little gallery in Chelsea, but it was between tenth and eleventh. Not really a prime spot. They ran the same scheme then. Sold good forgeries to unsuspecting collectors. I helped on some of the pieces and the certificates of authenticity."

"How'd they find you?"

"Friend of a friend…" Neal responded.

"And these were good guys, or…"

Neal smiled. "Good guys? You do know we're talking about criminal activity here, Moz, right?"

"You know what I mean, Neal. You got paid? They were respectable business partners?"

"They were a bit rough around the edges," Neal answered slowly. "Jason, the guy I dealt with, was always paranoid. He'd always ask if I was followed. Always really jittery. And quick to get angry. I heard from a few other guys that he could be violent, and that he carried a gun at all times. But I never saw that. I gave them what they wanted."

"How'd it end?"

"I don't know, really." Neal shrugged. "I kind of distanced myself and was moving onto other things. And one day I realized their shop was gone. I don't know what happened."

"And now he's back."

"I guess," Neal answered. He rubbed a hand over his jaw thoughtfully. "Moz, you think you can look up the other guy? Jason? I'm wondering if he's still around. If they're still connected. He would definitely recognize me."

"Sure. Of course."

"Thanks." Neal watched as Mozzie finished the liquid in glass in one final gulp and started to rise from the table. "You're leaving?" he asked. He wasn't that surprised. He wasn't offering the most intellectual stimulation or even much conversation at all to his friend. But he did like the company.

"It's late, mon frère. We'll talk tomorrow." Mozzie walked around the table and reached out to squeeze Neal's shoulder, briefly but firmly. "And get your head out of the clouds. You keep second-guessing yourself, and that's when trouble starts. You're Neal Caffrey. The Suit has nothing on you."

Neal smiled at him. "Have a good night, Moz."

A moment later his apartment door opened and closed, and he was alone.

Alone with his thoughts.


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you very, very much to those who left comments. It means so much! I really appreciate it.

This is a longer chapter... Hope that's okay! I had a hard time cutting it off earlier...

* * *

A moment later his apartment door opened and closed, and he was alone.

Alone with his thoughts.

And wine.

He reached across the table to the bottle and poured the remaining red liquid into his nearly empty glass. It filled the glass nearly to the rim.

When it came to missing that adrenaline and feeling that empty pit of need for something, nights alone were the hardest.

Anxiety was tough for him to describe. There was a mix of nervousness, a feeling of emptiness that was a hunger of sorts but not for food, and a sense of nausea. It had a tendency to affect him physically too. It filled him with uneasy energy. He felt jittery. He felt feverish. He felt exhausted but vividly awake.

Conversations with Mozzie were a great distraction. Like tonight, Mozzie's frequent presence offered numerous outlets, from deep discussions on big brother's plans for them, future dreams of success and freedom, wistful dialogue on other random topics, and then there was always a bottle or two (or three) of wine.

It was after those evenings that Neal found himself reflecting back on things from both recent and distant past.

During the day, it was relatively easy to keep his mind busy. There was the day job, during which Peter took great pride in handing over a multitude of tasks to occupy him, and there was simply being around people. Neal thrived on being around people. On one hand, it was in itself a distraction, but also it was sometimes a fun challenge to learn what made individuals tick and to get a desired reaction. Anyone could be his muse.

It was night that was harder. Especially on a night like tonight where his mind was racing with regrets from the day itself, across things he shouldn't have done but had, and things he should have done but hadn't.

He felt the slow but aged anxiety bubble up within him as his mind spanned spectrums of thought. Slow, painfully detailed, panicked contemplations and memories would run wild. This is why he strove to be busy. Without being busy, without future endeavors on his mind, without planning _something_ , he focused on the past, and mostly on regrets of things he should have done differently.

And that created restlessness.

Very early in their relationship, Peter used to check in on him more frequently. Especially if he wasn't home at night, even if he remained within his radius. The call would come like clockwork, feigning innocent curiosity on what he was up to, always with some bullshit reminder about something happening the next day as though to mask the real reason for his call. Peter watched him like a hawk those days. On one hand it was irritating, but on the other, the attention made Neal a bit smug. He went out of his way to try to surprise the older agent for that reason. He would frequently go just to the edge of his radius, smirking as his phone would start to ring and he'd provide a logical excuse for his whereabouts with feigned innocence.

Peter didn't call as much at night anymore. Peter no longer automatically expected he would step out of line. He was sure Elizabeth was happy about that. Peter deserved more than a babysitting job. But sometimes Neal was tempted to give him a reason to call, just to test the situation. To test how much he really cared.

To have someone to talk to.

But usually he tried to find a distraction instead.

Painting sometimes filled some of the nighttime. With a glass of wine and a vivid imagination, creating images was easy. Original or otherwise. That distraction certainly helped. But it wasn't always the answer. He couldn't just force himself to paint. When he did force it, he found himself flustered and frustrated and angry, more likely to throw the paintbrush and potentially damage June's apartment than find relief.

Exercise helped too. Some push ups here and there. Stretching. Running when he could. He loved to run, and Peter always teased him of the irony. But he hated bumping up against the two-mile radius and feeling the soft vibrating warning that he might soon be outside his boundary. That only made him angry. Running made him feel free, up until that jarring moment of hitting two miles. It was then he was reminded that he really was still caged. Running in circles was a pain in the ass.

Sometimes he imagined running through the warning, just to see what would happen. How would that feel, to knowingly jog right through the alert and to keep going? Not to run away, of course not, but just to test that freedom. To see what it would feel like.

He tried to imagine Peter's reaction if he tried that. He knew he'd definitely get a phone call then, probably within minutes. If he answered, he'd get one hell of a lecture, and then hell to pay when he saw Peter in person. He hadn't had the guts to actually do it just yet. Once he had strongly considered it, on a night where he was feeling particularly lonely. He came up with a plan to feign complete ignorance and innocence, but he knew Peter wouldn't buy it. His explanation would sound stupid to Peter, and then another lecture would ensue. It would be painful and lengthy and would remind him how he could easily be back in jail if he didn't respect the terms of his release.

Neal hated that particular lecture. It made him feel minimalized. Like a caged bird. Like a child. It was hard to stay calm and stoic under that lecture.

He could do it, run past his radius, and just not answer the phone as well. That was more dangerous. Peter would instantly know where he was anyway, and would probably immediately, or at least after a couple attempted phone calls, get in the car to find him. How Peter would actually react depended on what Neal was interrupting in Peter's evening. Neal winced at that thought. He would probably opt to pick up the phone.

On this particular night, as he thought through these elements of his life, it was too dark and late to run anyway. Running would also probably qualify as not 'staying at home.' No 'running around' was the actual phrase Peter had used. Which was a shame given the amount of energy he was feeling. Even three glasses of wine hadn't dulled the drive he felt to do something. To do anything.

Reading through the file Moz had brought over held his attention for ten minutes, before he pushed the papers aside and got to his feet again. He paced the apartment, wondering if June could hear the floorboards creaking below, and then stepped out onto his patio.

The night air was still. Cool but not cold. There was a siren in the far distance.

He loved his patio. He loved staring out at the skyline.

He had a hard time calling it his. He convinced himself it was though, at least temporarily. He was a welcomed tenant of June's, and during that time, it was his.

He returned to Mozzie's file. Poured over what he could. Searched for names he knew. Specifically Jason Hilks. That would probably be, other than his art, the one direct connection he had to this case.

He couldn't directly find that name. And that made him nervous. Was he wrong about Messier? He was pretty sure after seeing him and hearing him in person that it was the same person. And he would think part of his old network still existed.

It was late. He was tired but not.

He fell asleep at his table.

* * *

Peter had missed three phone calls before arriving to the office that next day.

He saw the missed calls on his desk phone's screen as he sat down with a freshly brewed cup of coffee and frowned, given it was only seven-thirty in the morning. He'd left for home last night from the Messier investigation without much urgency, knowing they were likely going to let Messier go today unless the questioning changed course or new evidence came to play. He had been able to enjoy a dinner with Elizabeth that was uninterrupted. He wished those evenings were more frequent.

He eyed the call log. One missed call from Hughes. Two from Diana.

He called Diana back first.

"Boss," she answered.

"Diana," he said briefly. "What's going on? I've got two calls from you already, and I haven't even had a cup of coffee. Where are you?"

He heard her sigh come over the line. "So I've got some not-so-great-news," she said slowly. "You know how we agreed to have Messier's place as locked down as Fort Knox?"

"Yes…" Peter responded, with slight uncertainty. He took a small sip of the hot coffee and waited for it.

"Well, good thing we did," she continued. "We had a bit of a break-in last night. I'm over here now."

Peter's heart skipped a bit. "We what? What do you mean, a break-in?"

"You heard me. Someone apparently wanted to snoop around and see what was going on over here. They didn't enter through the front, Peter. They entered through the loading dock in the back, where we actually didn't have eyes. But they set off the silent alarm we had set-up in the doorway of the office, which alerted our guys out on surveillance."

"Shit. Was anything taken?"

"Nothing that we know of yet, but we're comparing the inventory we had versus what should have been left here last night to check for sure. We also had a video surveillance set-up in the office, though the quality isn't great. It was motion detector activated and it was dark."

Peter took a deep breath. "So did they see who it was?"

"Not yet. We'll have to review the footage we have on the inside and on the building to see if there's anything, but by the time our guys got upstairs, this person was gone. They left the office door open, so they were rushed. They must have been spooked. Once the camera set-up in the office downloads from the server we'll see if there's anything we can actually make out. Again… It was dark."

Peter rubbed a hand over his jaw. "Let me know as soon as you see anything on that video." He cursed internally.

"Will do, boss."

As Peter hung up the phone, his mind went in several directions. At first he was pissed that someone had tried to break-in, and relieved that they had the forward intuition to be prepared for something like that to happen. He knew there was a strong likelihood Messier's network extended beyond a team of one. But next his mind immediately went to Neal.

' _What about the art?'_ Neal had asked. _'In his office? Can I look at it while you go over there?'_

Peter had said no. And while Neal hadn't looked happy about it, he seemed to accept it and understand that that had to be the answer until there was more information. And then further to that point, their conversation ended with Peter explicitly telling him to prove he could stay home. For one night, not to go anywhere. He tried to recall whether Neal had actually agreed with the challenge. Peter couldn't definitively remember. He suddenly felt more frustrated. He should have required a verbal agreement.

Would Neal dare go over there? Peter wasn't sure. He wanted to believe that he wouldn't, but deep down he couldn't eliminate the nervous suspicion that he felt.

Peter picked up his phone again. He dialed Jones, who picked up on one ring.

"Hey, Peter," Jones greeted. "Morning. What's up?"

"Can you run Caffrey's tracking data for me?" Peter asked distractedly. "Just yesterday. From five until now."

"Sure." Jones paused and then added, "What'd he do this time?"

"Not sure. Hopefully nothing."

"I've heard that before…. I'll have it in ten minutes."

"Thanks…" Peter hung up the phone. He looked down at the bullpen. Neal wasn't in yet, and his empty desk sat there innocuously.

He felt wrong to immediately suspect the break-in might have to do with Neal. To immediately think of him as a potential suspect. After all their talks of trust and following orders and communication… That should have been a distant thought for him. But he couldn't help it. That was where his mind went. Neal left too much room for suspicion. He still had walls up that Peter couldn't see through except in certain moments. He still proved his penchant for going rogue when it suited him.

Prove me wrong, Neal… he thought to himself.

Not staying home was one thing, and if he hadn't that would have to be met with following through on the threat of paperwork as his only assignment for the foreseeable future… Administrative duties were not Neal's strong suit or preference. But not staying home was just part of the problem. If he had actually gone back to Messier's office…

Was that enough to actually… Actually what? Take him off cases? Then what was the point? Neal could add value sitting at a desk, but they both knew that wasn't the intent of their agreement. Then what? Take away his deal?

Peter would never admit it to Neal, but he couldn't even imagine ending their agreement. He would look to any other consequence at that point. This kid was too much a part of his life now. He had so much potential good in him. Peter felt a duty to protect him, despite his wayward ways.

Don't let it come to that just yet, Peter told himself. There was nothing but a firmly rooted sense of suspicion indicating Neal just yet. Nothing Diana had described indicated Neal more than anybody else that could be at play. And they already suspected Messier had other cohorts.

His phone rang again. He looked at the caller ID and saw Hughes' name. He sighed once again and reached to pick up the receiver.

"Burke."

"Peter," Hughes said gruffly. "I'm sure you head already the news from last night."

"Yes, spoke to Diana a few minutes ago."

"I'll be in the office in thirty. Let's talk then about where we are and potential undercover plans… I don't think we have much choice… This is moving too quickly."

"Understood. And agreed." Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath, tightening his grip on the phone.

* * *

Neal had a headache.

And a backache.

His restless slumber at his table, finally followed by the last hour of sleep tossing and turning in bed, didn't make for a good next day.

He'd woken up in the morning, early and in pain. A hot shower and a couple of aspirin helped only slightly. He didn't know whether the poor sleep or polishing off the remainder of that bottle of wine was the primary driver.

He looked at himself in the mirror before leaving his apartment, reaching up to tilt his hat just so. He smiled at his reflection, testing his appearance, and blocked the aches out of his mind. He looked normal, confident, trustworthy. Trustworthy? Sure. He was going to go with that.

With that assurance, he then grabbed a cab to go to the office.

It was setting out to be a miserable day. He walked in to find a pile of cases on his desk, which in itself wasn't bad, but after thumbing through the files and realizing they were mostly mortgage fraud, it felt like punishment.

Maybe Peter's threat of confining him to his desk was going to be a short-term reality despite having stayed home after all. He glanced up at his handler's office in disdain but saw the man was standing, back turned and on the phone.

At the same time, Neal was somewhat relieved to be assigned, formally or not, to his desk that day. He had some things to figure out. He had some names that Mozzie had provided in his files that he wanted to check-on. He was more and more worried that he was inadvertently tied to the current case. So mortgage fraud or otherwise, he'd take it. Better also than sitting in a surveillance van again or some other boring as hell activity.

He again hesitated about how to approach Peter about his semi-connection to the Messier case. Peter had made it clear he wasn't sure how to involve him in the investigation. And he didn't know whether raising this information would help or hurt his chances to get involved. Every time he considered how to tell Peter, his anxiety levels soared and his imagined reaction from Peter took new forms.

He ran his hands over his face, up and down, taking a deep breath. He felt sick. Everything he'd learned since taking this job told him to tell Peter, but he couldn't help but feel that strong resistance. He had avoided Peter that morning for exactly that reason, despite also feeling anxious to hear the latest on the case.

He tried to distract himself. He could wait patiently until they could involve him… There was some research he still needed to do as well. He hadn't finished looking at some of the details of the Cyrillic alphabet as closely as he'd wanted to…

He also had all these new cases….

Keeping his mind focused on work distracted him only slightly. His mind kept returning to the connections with Messier, to the pieces he had forged ten years ago, and he couldn't ignore the thoughts. He tried to push them away, tried to focus, but it was a struggle. It was starting to make him sweat, and he could tell with unhappiness that he was probably looking flushed. Like he was guilty.

You're not guilty, he told himself. You did nothing. And plus, all of that was years ago before you even knew Peter.

But they were digging into Messier as well. Running all the background information. Probably had the same information Mozzie had. What if his name came up?

It won't… he continued to tell himself.

"Caffrey." It was only just past two when he found Jones standing in front of his desk, a frown on his face. "Boss wants to see you."

Neal looked up at his colleague, seeing the frown, and then glanced up towards Peter's office. He dropped his pen as he returned his gaze to Jones. "Why?"

"He need a reason?" Jones shot back. He shook his head and walked away.

Neal set his jaw, watching Jones walk away, and then sighed. He pushed back his chair before forcing an expression of indifference, and stood up to make his way to Peter's office.

He didn't know why going to Peter's office always felt like going to the principal's office. He'd done nothing wrong to feel that way. Not only had he stayed home as directed last night, but in fact, he'd been more productive today than many recent days when it came to the cases that had been handed to him in voluminous amounts of paper. And Peter couldn't still be mad about his misstep at Messier's office. None of his actions had actually negatively impacted the case in any way.

As far as he knew… But maybe his fears were right. Maybe they had somehow linked him.

By the time he reached Peter's door, his stride was natural, attempting to push back his anxiety several psyche levels in, and he'd already transformed his expression into one of carefree bliss, paired with a pearly bright smile. "Peter," he greeted. "Jones said you wanted to see me."

"Hey, Neal." Peter leaned back in his chair, returning the smile with a tight one of his own as he nodded. "Yeah. Come on in. Shut the door."

Neal did, using the moment when his back was to Peter to frown and try to gather his cool. Shut door again. He hoped this wasn't a prelude to another heavy conversation. He tried to think harder. His heart started to beat faster. He felt the dampness of his palms.

He was always afraid of Peter suddenly finding out about prior life past indiscretions that he didn't already known about. There was little control over that if it did happen. Those things were already done before he'd met Peter. But if this was related to a current case, that could be trouble.

When he turned around, Peter was still watching him. He had that slightly guarded look, lips pressed together in a pencil thin expression as though he was scrutinizing Neal.

"What?" Neal asked, hooking his thumbs into his front pants pockets distractedly. He leaned back against the door behind him. He wanted to keep that exit strategy close. He hated when Peter stared at him like that.

He tried, but couldn't, make eye contact.

Instead he stared at Peter's coffee mug.

"What's going on, Neal?" Peter asked him, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"Huh?" Neal frowned. That was vague. Did Peter not have something specific to talk to him about? Usually Peter came right out with it. He glanced behind him, through the glass at the rest of the Bureau office. Was there something he had missed? Everyone seemed to be operating under normal activities. He turned back to Peter, heart beating faster. "What do you mean?"

"Sit." Peter nodded his head towards the chair in front of his desk.

Neal did so, compliant. Peter always eventually told him to sit. He probably wondered why Neal hadn't learned to just sit down already to begin with. But sometimes he couldn't.

He continued to look at Peter dubiously. Why did it feel like Peter was staring through him again? He started to feel the heat rise in his cheeks, though he willed himself to stop letting his emotions show and to be calm. He was definitely sweating. He ran his hands over his thighs, willing himself to appear apathetic. Why act guilty before knowing what the man even wanted to talk about?

"You feel okay?" Peter started.

"Uh…" Neal answered slowly. He didn't. He really didn't feel well. He frowned. "Why?"

"You look flushed."

Neal damned his body for betraying his guise of unflappable confidence and cool. "I'm fine," he told Peter, a little more edgily than he intended.

"Okay, good. Anything you want to tell me?" Peter persisted. He got up from his chair, walking around the desk to stand directly in front of Neal.

Neal looked up at him, perplexed. He didn't like this. "Peter…" he started. "I don't know what you're looking for... What should I tell you? That I appreciate the twenty-three new mortgage fraud cases you've gifted me with this morning? Uh, thanks? I suppose?" At the same time he was thinking maybe this was his chance. Maybe he should tell him.

"Twenty three? Funny." Peter paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "That's it? Nothing?"

Neal's brow furrowed. "What else would there be?" He glanced behind him again. The office seemed normal. Did they know anything, or should he tell them? "Jones told me you wanted to see me. So I came up to see you. What am I missing?" He paused.

"You tell me, Neal," Peter answered. "Is there something else I need to know about?"

"Like what?" Neal grew exasperated. At the same time alarm bells were ringing in his head. Does he know? Is this a test?

Peter sighed. "Neal, you've been in the office today for nearly five hours, and this is the first time we've spoken."

"Okay…" Neal continued to be perplexed. He didn't know avoiding Peter would cause suspicion. He shifted in his seat slightly. "That's a crime now?"

Peter smirked at him slightly. "A crime? No. Unusual? Yes." He sat back against his desk and folded his arms across his chest. "You usually avoid me if you're hiding something."

"Hiding something?" Neal echoed, brows rising. "I'm not hiding anything." His voice rose without his direction and internally he cursed. What did Peter know? And dammit, he'd just lied. He was hiding something.

"Neal, since when do I get to go a full half day without a complaint about the coffee? Or a request for some unusual and ridiculously expensive lunch outing? Or even a basic hello?"

Neal ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know. Today?"

"Today. Exactly." Peter stared at him. "What is it about today? You haven't even asked me about the case."

"The case I'm not on, you mean?" Neal responded tersely.

"Don't exaggerate. You're on it and you know that. You also know why you couldn't come with me yesterday, but I'm surprised you weren't in here first thing asking about it." Peter paused, scrutinizing his CI carefully. The kid looked somewhat uncomfortable, but not exactly guilty. "What else is it, Neal?"

"Why do I feel like you're interrogating me for something you don't even know about?" Neal asked skeptically. While his stomach did flip-flops he stared at Peter with icy blue eyes, expression calm. "Like you're fishing for something?"

"What don't I know about, Neal?" Peter responded, tilting his head.

Neal let out a frustrated breath. "That's not what I meant." He and Peter had come a long way from a trust perspective. He didn't know why he now felt like he was in the hot seat with unfounded suspicion directed at him. And for once, he truly hadn't done anything. At least recently. He reminded himself that all the stuff he was concerned about was from ten years ago. "I mean, there's a lot of stuff you don't know about, Peter. But I didn't do any of that in the last twenty-four hours."

Peter's eyes narrowed, and Neal squirmed slightly in his seat, briefly losing his cool as he realized his words weren't properly thought out. "Or even the last week," he restated. "Other than the Messier case." He paused, waiting to speak again until he could control his thoughts. Why did he mention Messier? That might make Peter think there was something else. "I shouldn't have taken that wallet, and I said I was sorry. I couldn't help it. But this isn't about that, right?"

Peter responded by shaking his head. "No, Neal. Not what I want to hear. And by the way, you _can_ 'help it.' Don't pickpocket."

"Noted. But this isn't about that. So what, then?" Neal responded. "You think I did something else?"

"I think…" Peter said slowly. "That you've kept your head down all day, not a word to me or the team, no coffee runs, and you've been going through mortgage case files for hours like they're the most engaging thing you've ever read…"

Neal stared back at Peter disbelievingly. "Isn't that what you _want_ me to do?"

"Kid, you rarely ever do what I _want_ you to do." Peter smiled then, but it was with a look of apprehension. "What'd you do last night, Neal?"

Neal swallowed. Why was he being interrogated? For once he'd spent a good portion of the day actually dedicated to boring case files, yet now Peter was treating him like a suspect again. "I was home. Like you told me to be. Remember?"

"I know you were home," Peter answered. He raised his eyebrows. "I didn't ask you where you were, Neal. I asked you what you _did_."

It was Neal's turn to feel affronted. "You looked at my tracking data."

"About an hour ago," Peter admitted. He shrugged. "Was curious."

"You didn't trust me?"

"I didn't say that, Neal."

"So let me get this straight… You're mad because I stayed home last night like you told me to, and because today I'm just doing my job? That's not really fair, Peter."

"No one is mad." Peter shook his head. "I'm not mad, Neal."

Neal stared back at Peter. While they'd come a long way, and they could sit in this room together and feel fairly comfortable, he couldn't help but feel every time he spoke that Peter was dissecting his words, making mental notes, trying to figure out a hidden agenda. His thought went back to the list he was afraid Peter kept. Stupid list. His heart skipped a beat.

He used to enjoy the game of being figured out, back when Peter was chasing him. He'd throw more complication into the mix just to watch Peter untangle the truth. That was fun and a bit of a rush. Now though... Now that they were 'partners', now that they worked so closely together, it was a little exasperating. He'd spent a solid day at his desk with his head down, and now he was feeling once again like a chastised child.

"Well, for the record," Neal began, leaning back in his chair with a smug expression, "I have only followed the law in the past twenty-four hours." He paused. "Minus the wallet."

"Fine," Peter responded, pushing himself up from the desk.

Neal frowned. Fine? What was Peter getting at? "What's with you today, Peter? You seem on edge." He smiled at his handler with teeth, convincingly calm, pushing back his other thoughts violently. He didn't have time for those thoughts. His heart was pounding, he was sweating, and he felt like he was going to throw up. But that didn't matter. Getting out of this hot seat and getting Peter off his back mattered. "Is it the case?"

Peter stepped towards him then, hand first pressing against his forehead, then slipping briefly to the back of his neck. Then two hands against his cheeks. The hands felt rough but cool to the touch.

"I'm _not_ sick," Neal objected, shrugging off the touch. "I told you." The smile he'd plastered on his face started to fade at the breach of space. "Stop." His voice wavered, which made him angry. He didn't like when he lost control over his tone or emotions.

"No?" Peter responded, releasing his hands and sitting back on his desk again. He frowned. "Nothing's the matter?"

Neal just stared at Peter, not answering his question. The touch had been too personal and without warning. Neal had gotten somewhat used to Peter getting close to him, almost too close, and sometimes physical, but this was more… parental in a way. Neal didn't like when Peter got parental. Not at the office.

"Neal. What's the matter?"

Neal hesitated. He felt a need to be more guarded. He didn't want to talk anymore. He attempted to rebuild his walls. "Nothing. Can we stop the interrogation?"

"This isn't an interrogation," Peter stated, raising his eyebrows at Neal. "But you'd tell me if something was up, right, Neal?"

"Things are up, Peter." Neal shrugged. "Things are always up, and down. That's life. Like the waves of the ocean, or the tide, there are–"

"Waves? Enough, Neal. I'm not doing this with you." Peter sighed and shook his head.

"Doing what?" Neal hated that his voice held the hint of a whine but he felt exasperated.

"This… game." Peter gestured his hand in the air. "I'm not trading quotes and riddles with you. Listen, I know you were home last night. Fine. Good. You proved it to me. Bravo. And I'll give you the benefit of the doubt that you're just focused on your work today. But so help me, Neal, if you're up to something…"

"What would I be up to?" Neal retorted incredulously.

Peter studied him closely. "Just don't be."

Neal put on his most innocent expression and threw his hands up in the air. "Honestly, Peter. It's like you want me to cause some action down there…." He gestured at the bullpen. "Is that it? You're bored?"

"No." Peter studied him another moment, brow furrowed, as he seemed to look for some tell that he might have missed. After a moment he sighed again and shook his head. "Fine. Forget it."

"Should I go? Back to mortgage fraud?" Neal responded. "Back to my job?"

"Enough," Peter responded curtly. "Listen, about the case…"

Neal's heart flip-flopped briefly but he kept his expression empty. "Yeah?"

"You're going to need to get involved…" Peter started slowly. He settled back against his desk again in front of Neal, crossing his arms over his chest. "In a few ways."

Neal frowned slightly. "Okay," he replied. He wasn't sure where Peter was going with this, and still didn't feel like he was in the clear to stop worrying. Did Peter know? And if not, if he was going to get more involved, should Neal tell him? "Like what?"

"We'll meet with Hughes in a half hour to talk further." Peter paused and then continued, "I have to tell you, Neal… After the stunt you pulled yesterday… I don't know if you realize the importance of this case, but if you do something like that again, I'll yank you off this case so fast your head will spin."

Neal resisted from responding right away and then nodded, choosing to go the submissive route. He studied a hangnail on his thumb. "Okay."

"Look at me," Peter said curtly. "I mean it."

"I know, Peter. I get it." Neal lifted his gaze briefly to meet Peter's eyes. He felt a rush of something (more guilt?) before he looked away again, this time at a photo of Elizabeth and Peter on the shelf.

"As for the art…" Peter continued. "They're moving the rest of it today," he said carefully. "Then we can get a chance to take a look. That's the first part of what you can help with."

"Moving where?"

Peter paused before answering. "It's all being moved to evidence. Once it's there, we can go through every piece."

Neal nodded slowly.

"Messier might get released today, Neal," Peter added, voice turning thoughtful. "He didn't talk much, and what we have so far is proving a little difficult to figure out specific charges. The crimes we do have don't specifically name him…" He paused, studying Neal. "And I never asked you. What did you talk to him about?"

Neal blinked, hesitating. Peter was right. He'd been so angry at the fact Neal was _there_ that he hadn't ever even asked him what he had talked to Messier about. "Uh, not much," he replied hesitantly. "I mean, I was probably there for five minutes before you guys came in."

"What'd you say to him?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I asked. What did you say to him?" Peter repeated. "Did you pretend you were looking to buy?"

Neal fidgeted. "Not buy, per se…"

"Neal. Five minutes is enough to get a message across. What'd you say?"

Neal pressed his lips together briefly and then spoke again. "I told him I was looking to, uh, 'move' some art," he said slowly.

Peter frowned curiously. "Move art…"

"I told him I was looking for someone to help me… move some inventory." Neal sighed. "I wanted to see what his angle was…"

"Neal, you said you didn't know him."

"I _don't_ ," Neal persisted. He tried not to wince after the words came out, but that wasn't a lie. He didn't _know_ him. Not personally. "I was just trying to figure him out. And then you guys came in."

"So nothing else? No other words exchanged?"

"No, Peter. Honest." Honest except the whole backstory not shared… Neal ran his hands over his thighs again.

"Okay." Peter leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. "Fine."

"Fine?" Neal repeated.

"For now, Neal." Peter scrutinized him once more. "Go back to your desk. I'll call you up when we meet with Hughes."


	9. Chapter 9

A very big thank you for the reviews, which are really encouraging and help me to move this story along. I appreciate it. The last chapter was probably way too long, but once my fingers start they sometimes can't stop! I'll have to likely edit this whole story again once it's complete :) Speaking of moving along, we are leading up to more action in coming chapters...

* * *

Peter scrutinized him once more. "Go back to your desk. I'll call you up when we meet with Hughes."

Peter watched as Neal turned and left without another word. He leaned back in his chair, feeling undecided and skeptical. On one hand, Neal's quietness all day was unsettling. Neal was normally an animated chatterbox. An attention-seeker. The fact he sat at his desk all day with his head down indicated something was going on. Peter could think back on other times Neal had avoided him and all those times had resulted in Neal in trouble. But the tracking data showed Neal was indeed at home all night. And that he'd gone directly home from the office as well. The video footage Diana had from the night before at Messier's office, though dark, didn't look like Neal, though the person of interest did wear a mask and dark clothing. Peter reminded himself that not being present didn't mean Neal had nothing to do with it, but he tried to convince himself it was unlikely.

Unfortunately Peter could think of more than one instance where Neal had earnestly claimed innocence with angel-like expressions of surprise at being suspected when in reality it was simply a matter of him not physically being involved, but being an accomplice from afar. A game of semantics.

Goddamn semantics. Always goddamn wordplay games with this CI. It frustrated Peter to no end. He didn't know how to teach him to stop doing that. It was almost ingrained in Neal to communicate that way.

He hadn't even told Neal about the break-in. Now he wondered if he should have taken that approach instead. Given him the news and then watched his reaction to see if there was anything suspicious or any pretense in his response. Now if he told him, he would likely just get a tirade from Neal about Peter suspecting him, given the question of his activities the prior night. Walls would come up and accusations of trust would be thrown at Peter, causing him to turn the conversation into a defensive one rather than focus on the true topic at hand.

Neal definitely had something on his mind. His direct eye contact had been scarce, even for Neal, and he looked… bothered. He looked flushed, and Peter felt that there was something distracting him. He just didn't know what and hoped it didn't lead to trouble or derailing the case. When he pressed was when Neal seemed to return to normalcy with a smile or a jest, making virtuous eye contact. It was hard getting under those walls when you were dealing with a professional con artist who had been trained to have those walls.

Peter glanced at his watch. Hughes would be ready soon. Hughes was in favor of sending Neal in, keeping him close. When Peter started to suggest a delay, or other alternatives, Hughes frowned and continued articulating the course to get the undercover route starting as soon as possible.

Getting Neal in was good for the case but… Peter couldn't help but continue to feel a bit uncertain.

However, Peter had to admit the dialogue exchanged with Messier that Neal had just shared set them up somewhat nicely…

He would have to extend his trust on good faith that Neal wasn't holding something back. He hoped he wouldn't regret it.

* * *

Neal sat at his desk distractedly after his discussion with Peter, one leg bouncing out of sight. He couldn't help but dwell on the thought that he'd just been given an open window to come clean with Peter yet hadn't. Now the case was picking up, and they needed his help, but he hadn't shared anything on his potential connections. In fact, on the contrary; he'd provided statements that would be criticized once (if?) the truth did come out.

Peter seemed to suspect him of something, and while Neal felt himself bristle at that, he also had to admit to himself in hindsight that sitting at his desk the whole day was a bit out of character. The first thing he usually did each morning at the office was to look for Peter.

He didn't have time to dwell on it or change course before he got the signal to join them in the conference room. That signal of course was a whistle and two fingers pointed at him and then the conference room, but it was a signal nonetheless. And he followed it, making his way slowly to the conference room where he could see Peter and Hughes already moving to sit down.

He took a deep breath before entering the room, ensuring he took on a clear-headed and focused persona. He always felt himself automatically reverting to 'best behavior' when Hughes was around. Not that he purposefully was less adherent to roles and policies with just Peter, but he did often found himself letting his guard down with him. There were questions he would only ask his handler, and opinions he would only share with him as well. Peter had shown patience for real questions, sometimes proactively trying to teach him. He wasn't sure what Hughes opinion really was of him. While their mutual respect had grown over the course of his agreement, Neal wasn't so sure a fraction of the same patience was there.

Settling into a seat in the conference room, choosing one purposefully close to Peter, Neal quickly scanned the room. Diana and Hughes were the two additional familiar faces, while there were another two he was less familiar with. He was somewhat sure he'd seen them floating around the office. He assumed they could be from Cyber Crimes, and he was thankful they weren't the faces from when he'd visited Messier's office during the stakeout...

He then noticed the whiteboard in the front of the room and the photos and words that filled it.

He felt the need to go look at it more closely, but remained in his seat patiently. He could tolerate waiting and knew he'd get a chance to look at it in more detail shortly. From the distance, he scanned each photo, from Messier to the other photos around his.

He quickly found the face he knew. Jason Hilks.

His heart skipped a beat and he forced his expression to remain stoic.

He couldn't place the feeling he experienced next. On one hand, he had almost expected this. That's why he had asked Mozzie to look into Jason. On the other hand, it made him nervous. He was going to possibly be playing a role here, and if that were the case, it would have to be on his terms if he was going to see Jason again. He couldn't risk losing credibility in the role following the FBI's idea of what should happen versus taking a strategy based on his previous relationship with the man.

He also felt a stronger personal desire to be on the case now, and he sensed the adrenaline pickup in his pulse. Despite his concerns, his connection would help them, and he could also hopefully control how his past indiscretions with this circle would be reflected (if they had to be…) versus having it discovered independently. But he wasn't sure if the Bureau would see any of that as a liability, especially since he'd concealed all of it.

He broke his gaze from the board, and then quickly looked around the room, particularly to canvas the unfamiliar faces. He was always apprehensive of those he hadn't met before. He had frequently found the average agent's opinion of CIs not to be very high in the Bureau. So he knew to be cautious around less familiar co-workers, especially without Peter with him. He had to work harder to prove himself to them.

One of the two unknown people was currently speaking. He gestured towards the whiteboard as he spoke.

Neal forced himself to listen. He glanced at Peter and noticed the man looked a little impatient. A lot of what the current speaker was saying was old news to most of them. He was essentially relaying a summary what they already knew on the case so far. Much of this was what Neal had already read in the original case file.

This recap continued for just a few minutes longer before interruption.

"So as you can see, we don't have much…" Hughes spoke up, tone dry. "And after last night…" he paused, clearing his throat as he continued, "we've got a pretty clear indication that it's more than Messier at play here…"

Neal frowned. He originally intended to wait to make any comments, but he couldn't let that detail go unexplained. "Last night?" he asked. "Why? What happened last night?"

There was a short pause in the room.

"Break-in," Diana supplied. "At Messier's office. Not sure who it was."

Neal's mind immediately backtracked to his discussion with Peter just a half hour before. To Peter's insistent questioning on whether Neal had anything he should tell him. About what he had done the night before. He turned his eyes slowly towards his handler, narrowing them slightly. Neal felt a reprieve on his anxiety, at least slightly, as it was replaced by irritation. Had Peter really suspected he might have had something to do with a break-in?

"Was anything taken?" Neal persisted, smoothing out his expression and returning his focus to Diana. He tried to keep his voice calm as he clenched his hands in his lap. Dammit, Peter. He needed more information, and to do that, he needed to focus and ignore the sting he felt from being a suspect. But his mind still went there even as he willed it not to. Did Peter really not trust him? Was he so quick to consider he might do something like that? Sure he'd gone slightly… what had Peter called it… 'rogue'… in visiting Messier himself on the stakeout, but seriously?

"Nothing taken," Diana responded with a shrug. "That we can confirm, at least. It was quick."

Neal didn't say anything else. His mind was too busy processing.

"Has all the art been moved by now?" Peter asked, directing the questions to Diana and altering the focus of the conversation.

"Yes…" she said slowly. "And we have a full, however high-level, inventory of it. Everything was photographed, itemized, and catalogued before moving like we discussed." She paused. "All two hundred and sixty three pieces…"

Neal whistled in surprise. "Two sixty three?" he repeated.

"Yeah, it's a big number," Diana continued, giving him a small smirk. "That's why it took all day. And we have the piece that was in transit as well."

Neal reflected on that. They'd estimated a couple hundred pieces, but it was still a large number. And possibly some of it was real. What had been anxiety and then irritation was now shifting to excitement….

And then quickly back to anxiety.

Some of these pieces could be his… With that large number, he feared that the possibility increased that some of his work from ten years ago was part of it.

He tried to rationalize the best approach to take if that were the case. He didn't have to identify himself as the artist… Just whether it was real or fake.

He tried to recall whether or not he'd hidden signatures in any of them. He wasn't always consistent with that back then…

He straightened in his chair and tried not to look distracted by his jumbled, incongruous thoughts.

"Good. So it's all there. We can go over there this afternoon," Peter continued. "Neal." Neal raised his gaze to meet his handler's, unable to fully mask a partially resentful look that aligned with the earlier frustration he felt, but Peter either didn't register it or didn't care to entertain it at the moment. He met Neal's eye without much expression himself. "You and I will go later today."

"Okay," Neal responded stiffly, unable to think of much more to say. He heard Peter's tone, all-business, and he didn't react. Was Peter not going to acknowledge that he had just interrogated him over this? Neal dismissed the complaint in his head. He wasn't about to address any of his annoyance with Peter in front of an audience. Plus, he did really want to see the art.

"The art, yes. But more importantly, we need names," Hughes continued. "As we discussed, Peter… I think the undercover role here is going to be critical." His eye contact also shifted to Neal. "Identifying the validity and origin behind the art is one thing. What we really need is accountability. And to do that, we need to have someone carefully integrated with either Messier or his team. We need evidence of their operation. With Messier directly, it might be too obvious. Given the attention on him after the initial arrest. But we need to find out who his team is and get close…"

"What do you suggest?" asked the second unnamed Cyber Crimes individual.

"We're already sorting out a background story to use…" Hughes said slowly. He continued to keep his eyes on Neal. "Caffrey… We're going to need you in on this one. If you go undercover, and play your cards right, we could get what we need. Once we have the dossier built out for this with the right documentation in a day or two, you'll have the right identity to– "

"No," Neal spoke up, objecting. He froze as he did so, as the word slipped out before he had fully processed his rationale.

All eyes turned to him now.

"I…" he started hesitantly, particularly feeling Peter's intense stare. He suddenly regretted sitting so closely to the man but refused to look his direction and put his focus on Hughes instead, who looked slightly taken aback. Neal forced a slightly chuckle, as though dismissing what he'd just said, and tried to recover quickly. "I don't mean 'no' in that sense of the word. I mean, I'm fully onboard. I agree we need to go undercover. I'm happy to do it. But… I can't use your backstory. I just think… It might be more appropriate to actually leverage some of my past… some of my past experience here."

"Neal," Hughes continued, voice laced with skepticism. "Let's be thoughtful about this. If we control this, and the details, we can govern the access we give them and how we integrate you. No loose ends."

"Agreed." Neal paused, swallowing to pace himself. He needed to convince them of this so he would have control, and to do that he had to be careful with his words. "And that could work— I just think…." His eyes glanced toward the whiteboard as his mind raced. Their way would never work. He had to do this his way or not at all. "Now that I'm involved, if you don't object…." He paused. "Some of those names I'd like to look into more. I think some of my past… uh, experience, might actually have some overlap." He felt silly repeating the phrase 'past experience' but wasn't sure how else to describe it at the moment.

"Neal," Peter said, his tone just slightly laced with warning. "What do you mean 'overlap.' What specific 'experience' are you referring to?"

 _Great_ , Neal thought. Peter didn't appreciate the phrase either. "I might have some industry connections," Neal persisted, keeping his voice slow and calm. "I remember hearing about some operations like this. I might know some people." He didn't want to appear anything other than a team player here, and he absolutely wanted to avoid suspicion. "In which case… there is some consistency in leveraging an identity I used to go by."

"Which one?" Peter asked cautiously.

"Not one you know…" Neal admitted. He briefly met Peter's eyes then, feeling like Peter usually reacted better if he made that contact, but when he noted the wariness in Peter's expression, he then turned his point of view back to Hughes to gauge his reaction. He actually seemed to look thoughtful. That was good.

"If we don't know about it, then we don't know what strings it comes with," Peter spoke. "Or what it was associated with. You can still do what you're describing with the identity we give you."

"No. I need to use mine," Neal insisted, his tone firm. "I need to use my alias. That's the only way to do this." Or else I _won't_ do it, he thought to himself. He didn't want to risk an adverse reaction by saying that out loud. His job was technically to do what they wanted him to do.

"We can talk about it, Caffrey," Hughes responded, raising a hand to cut Peter off when it looked like the man was about to interject. "What name you go by is only part of this, and if you're partial to one…. And if it's one they might trust, then so be it… We'll look at it and figure it out. Let's talk about some more of the other tactical details."

"I need everything you have on those other people up there." Neal pointed to the whiteboard. He glanced again at Peter, who looked slightly unsettled but was now opening up a case file and not looking up. Neal started to feel apprehension over the man's follow-up questions for later. There was no way he wouldn't have some. But Neal ignored that for now and returned his focus to the whiteboard.

"Tony," Hughes said, gesturing at one of the Cyber Crimes guys, the one that had given the opening overview. "Give us what you've got beyond Messier. And get all of these files for Caffrey. He needs everything we know about them."

"We have four suspected connections to Messier," Tony stated. "You have their photos in front of you as well as names and what the connection we know about is."

As Tony started to talk, Neil quietly pushed his chair back and got to his feet, walking over to approach the whiteboard more closely. He looked picture to picture. There were four other individuals listed. He felt a chill as he looked at the face he knew up close.

Neal scanned the notes on the whiteboard, eyeing the connections stated. A cousin…. An accountant…. A tennis club partner… He focused on Jason's picture, under which it said 'Jason McCarthy.' Different surname, but there was no mistaking the person's identity. His connection read 'assumed associate.'

"What makes you think this one's an associate of his?" Neal asked. He pointed at the picture and then turned to view the others still sitting at the table.

Tony nodded. "That guy. Yeah, he's the one we're most suspicious of having a real business relationship with Messier. Over the course of our investigation leading up to this, they were spotted together frequently. He went into his office a few times, and they met in other locations as well."

"And… He's got a more questionable history," Diana spoke up. "At least on paper."

"Yeah, that's right…" Tony agreed. "Among a number of other arrests, he was one of the suspects in a kidnapping-murder trial a few years ago…. Though nothing stuck to him personally, and he walked." He paused before continuing, "We initially suspected he might be behind the break-in, but if he was, it wasn't directly. Guy on the video looks completely different."

"You have a video?" Neal asked. He briefly mulled over the mention of a kidnapping-murder trial and tried to brush it off. There shouldn't be violence in this case. Even if Jason had allegedly been involved in something else. This was white collar. Forgeries and fraudulent sales. Besides, if his involvement hadn't been proven, well… Well, Neal hesitated… He knew that meant nothing. But he wasn't sure he could see Jason actually doing something like that, even if he did recall the man's rumored short temper. Neal looked at Tony. "Can I see it?"

"Sure. Yeah, we'll set-up everything we have in here so you can go through it."

"Thanks…" Neal turned back to the board and stared at the picture of Jason as Tony continued talking, moving onto the other contacts.

Mr. Hilks… Neal thought to himself. A blast from the past.

"The most important piece of this," Hughes said stiffly, "is we can't lose Messier once he's released. Let's talk about how we make sure that doesn't happen."


	10. Chapter 10

A big thank you to those reading and especially to those who have left reviews. Really appreciate it!

* * *

After the briefing in the conference room, which wound up lasting nearly an hour, Neal was eager to go through all the new case files available on Messier and his known connections. He particularly wanted to focus on Jason. That association was his natural potential transition back into this world. Despite some trepidation, he also felt renewed energy to get his head into this case and to revamp his old persona to do it. His heart was beating fast with the thought of going back into this type of organization and integrating himself.

With case folders tucked under his arm, once they finished in the conference room, Neal aimed to head back to his desk. He needed to text Mozzie. There were new names for him to look into, and he wanted to tell him to meet him at his place later so he could run some ideas past him on how to get back into this circle again smoothly. Moz was pulling his own information as well, and cross-checking that against what the FBI had would be critical.

But as Neal had anticipated, though hoped to avoid, Peter had other questions first. The man exited the conference room just behind his CI and walked in step with him, keeping up with his quick place. "Neal. You have a minute?"

"Not really," Neal replied, trying not to sound uncooperative, just busy. He kept walking. "Besides, Peter, haven't you interrogated me enough for one day?" He moved forward towards the stairs, without stopping. He did want to ask Peter when they could head to the warehouse to see the art, but he prioritized the need to throw a few things to Mozzie first, and a juvenile part of him wanted to show Peter that he was still somewhat irritated at his apparent suspicion of his involvement in the activities at Messier's office the previous night.

However, he should have known better that lobbing a sarcastic comment like that to Peter would not expedite his journey back to his desk. In fact, quite the opposite.

"Hey. Not so fast." Peter caught Neal's arm before the younger man could reach the first step to head back to the bullpen. Peter gave him a tight smile as Neal turned towards him. "I think we should talk."

Neal pulled his arm free and gave Peter a disgruntled look. "You know, Peter, I think I'd be a lot more effective at my job if you stopped assuming I'm involved in every crime you hear about." He knew he sounded petulant and wasn't helping his wish for a short conversation and to be at his desk. He regretted the words, but also needed to get it out of his system. He felt slightly better now that he'd let his feelings show. He hadn't bottled it in. Didn't Peter tell him not to bottle his feelings?

Neal glanced towards Hughes office where the man had already disappeared behind a closed door. He'd been the first one out of the conference room.

"Listen," Peter began, a little curtly. He looked like he would have preferred Neal to bottle these particular feelings. "I don't want to do this with you. But if you need to, you're going to do it in my office. What I really wanted to ask you about was your alias…"

Neal felt impatient. Was Peter just going to dismiss his previous suspicion like it hadn't even happened? That wasn't right. It was a big deal. Didn't he trust him? Neal also didn't want a big conversation about trust. He could see Peter spinning it. In fact, he'd probably say something like, 'could I trust you yesterday at the stakeout to stay out of the building?' and Neal wouldn't have a good response to that. Or even on top of that, he could see him going further, revisiting yesterday with an added, 'could I trust you not to pickpocket?' They had surprisingly never really talked much about that, and he didn't want to.

Neal considered whether or not it was worth taking it any further while taking a deep breath and letting their eyes meet. Peter's expression was one of mixed sentiments.

A moment of silence passed between them as he thought further what to say before breaking eye contact and glancing away in the direction of his desk. His beacon in the distance at the moment.

Peter then sighed and reached out to take Neal's arm once again, holding him by the elbow as he gently steered him the short few feet into his office with a mumbled, "Okay, c'mon."

Neal didn't resist, but looked at Peter through narrowed, guarded eyes as they entered the office and Peter shut the door behind him. They remained standing, and Neal leaned back against the closed door silently, keeping the case files tightly tucked under his arm, as Peter stood a couple feet away.

Peter ignored the look he was receiving. Instead his expression appeared relatively calm, and he gestured at Neal with a wave of his hand as though to say 'let's have it.' After a beat passed and he verbally said, "Go ahead. Say what you're thinking."

Neal erased the frustration from his face, taking a chance at redirecting the discussion as he continued to pause and then replied earnestly, "I'd like to go to the warehouse, Peter. Like you suggested. Let's see what they got. Two hundred and sixty-three is a lot to go through."

"It is. And we will, Neal. But clearly you have something else on your mind."

"Mostly the art," Neal answered with a shrug.

"Yeah? Is that why you just said I _always_ assume you have something to do with every _crime_ I hear of?"

"Well…" Neal said slowly. The door felt hard against his back. "Not _every_ crime, I'm sure. I expect you're more selective than that. You're a highly skilled, discerning FBI agent, after all. I would hope you don't suspect me of _blue collar_ crimes, for example."

"Oh, Neal, cut the crap, will you?" Peter shook his head in disapproval. "Listen, I knew you were home last night."

Neal gave an affirmative nod. "Because you checked."

"Because we had an agreement that you'd be home last night. End of story. Do you really want to waste time arguing with me about this?"

"No," Neal admitted. "I don't. But—"

"If the answer is 'no' then there are no 'buts', Neal," Peter said firmly. "And then we're done talking about it. _And_ _then_ we'll go to the warehouse, but not until you're really actually done with this conversation. So are you?" He seemed more hopeful than exasperated.

"No," Neal persisted. He paused. "You…" he trailed off, frowning and debating his next words. _You did_ , he wanted to say. _You did suspect me_. But Peter was right. He didn't want to argue, and he certainly didn't want to have a circular conversation with Peter that wouldn't go anywhere. He just felt hurt by it, and that's all he wanted to express. _Haven't I proven myself yet?_ he wanted to ask. But a simple, "Peter…" was all he could say next.

"Neal, let's not do this," Peter said simply, tone softening. "You were acting uncharacteristically quiet most of today, and that was it. That's why I asked if something was up. I was fairly certain you had nothing to do with what happened last night."

Neal continued to frown, not responding for a moment. Then he said, "Fairly certain?" with skepticism.

"Well," Peter said, smirking slightly, "in addition to obviously being home, there's also a video that looks nothing like you." He was obviously trying to make light of the situation by downplaying it, likely in hopes of more easily dismissing the subject, but paused and sighed at Neal's displeased expression. "Neal, will you drop it?" Peter asked with a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest. He waited another few seconds and then shifted gears. "Now tell me about this alias," Peter said. "Let's talk about that. The case is what's important here. What's the name?"

Neal paused. He felt slightly irked at Peter's understatement of the other topic, but he gradually convinced himself to allow the subject to change, acknowledging being resentful of Peter was going to get him nowhere, at least at the moment. It had hurt, but he had to shake it off. "Willy," he responded.

"The name's Willy?" Peter asked. At Neal's nod, he asked, "Willy what?"

"Willy Loman."

Peter tilted his head slightly and smiled at the younger man. "Death of a Salesman."

Neal returned the smile at Peter's recognition of the name. That's why he liked Peter. Peter could pick up on his references. He suddenly felt better. "Yeah... Exactly."

"And why that alias?"

"Why the name or why do I want to use it?"

"Curious about the first, but moreso the latter," Peter responded slowly. "Why is it so important to use that alias? And why haven't I heard this name before?"

Neal's look turned pensive. "Well, I was pretty selective with what I used Willy for… He hasn't been around in several years, but he has a reputation that these guys will find compelling."

"What kind of reputation?" Peter asked. "You said in there that you thought there could be overlap with these guys. Can't say I'm surprised, knowing you… But what overlap? What did you use Willy for?"

Neal hesitated, frowning slightly.

Peter picked up the hesitation and his curiosity heightened. "Neal."

"I'd rather not say specifically."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Why?"

"Because, Peter." Neal looked past the man, altering his focus to the window. "There's stuff you don't know about." He paused. "And I don't know the statute of limitations."

"I know there's stuff I don't know about. You remind me often. What, you think I'm going to re-arrest you?" Peter said sarcastically. "C'mon. Give me an example."

"No," Neal objected. He didn't want to share. While Peter had at times in anger threatened the possibility of arresting him for indiscretions, he knew it was unlikely in this case. He was less concerned about the statute of limitations on these crimes versus Peter having more to add to his list. More Caffrey crimes. Even if they were from before he knew Peter, he didn't want the list to grow. He knew if he gave any examples Peter would get that disappointed look on his face. He glanced back at his handler and attempted to redirect the conversation elsewhere. "By the way, if I'm going to do this as Willy, which I need to, then I'm going to need a few things. First and foremost, a bike."

"A bike? Wait, what?" Peter shook his head, an incredulous look passing over his face. "Okay, hold that thought and back up… You know we're going to have to run a background check on your alias. Need to make sure it's safe for you to use. And as for the background check itself, honestly now that I know about the name, I would do anyway…"

Neal looked at Peter quizzically and then shrugged. "Sure. That's fine. You won't find anything though. Willy was never caught."

"Only because I didn't know about him," Peter pointed out with a small smile.

Neal gave Peter an impish smirk in return. "Oh, I'm pretty sure he would have given you a run for your money. There's a reason you don't know about him, after all… As for the bike…. Well, Willy rode a bike. It was a big part of his character. He rode it with –" Neal cut himself off before continuing, realizing he'd been about to admit Willy rode with Jason. "He rode it everywhere he went."

Neal remembered that bike. He had just gotten it around the time he was taking on the Willy role, and he loved it. There was such a sense of freedom. He felt so independent on it. It just so happened Jason was into motorcycles himself. So he made it one of Willy's interests. He learned everything he could about bikes. However, he gave it up about a year and a half later following a nasty turn on a rainy afternoon taking the exit for Coney Island…. He would leave that out for Peter's sake. That happened post-Willy anyway.

Peter looked increasingly skeptical. "If you're referring to the type of bike with a bell on it, then we can talk. Otherwise the answer is no."

Neal smiled brightly. "I can put a bell on it."

"Cute. But if it has a clutch and a throttle, it's not happening. FBI's not funding that."

Neal shrugged. "Fine, I'll just get one myself."

"That's up to you…" Peter responded, though he looked disapproving, like he wanted to say no but realized he didn't exactly have that authority. "You're an adult. Just be sure you don't tell El," he added, giving Neal a look. "She is not a fan… You don't want to find that out the hard way." He glanced at his watch. "We've got to get over to the warehouse soon if we want to see the art today. Tell me this - why Death of a Salesman, Neal?"

Neal shrugged. Lifting the arm not holding the case files, he ran a hand down the front of his shirt, as though focused on smoothing out his tie. "I don't know. You need to develop aliases from somewhere. And it's a modern, American tragedy. It's a classic. He's going through a crisis. He's created a myth about himself."

Peter nodded, wanting to ask what crisis Neal was going through at that time to want to use the persona of a tragic story. What myth had he created for his own self? Death of a Salesman was not a happy tale. But he decided not to ask further, at least not yet. Neal's expression was pensive, almost brooding, and he felt any further questions would make him more reserved.

"The only thing you've got in this world is what you can sell," Neal quoted.

"Speaking of which…" Peter said slowly. "Let's go to the warehouse. Ready?"

Neal nodded.

* * *

Peter tried to use the time in the car with Neal strategically to go over the immediate timeline of the case. Though he hadn't expressed it out loud, he was nervous about Neal's involvement at this level, so if there was one thing he could control, it was the details. He needed to make sure Neal followed a plan. That he was safe. As he spoke while driving, he wasn't quite sure if Neal was completely listening, as his head remained bowed down, chin to his chest with his gaze intently on his cell phone, fingers rapidly typing away in a series of text messages. But Peter tried anyway.

"We'll run the background on your alias today, Neal. Shouldn't take long, but it's already late in the afternoon, so they'll probably need until tomorrow."

"Okay," came the monotone response as fingers continued to text.

The next question Peter felt pained to ask but needed to know before spending resources and time that would be dismissed by Neal. "And as for Willy himself... Are you going to… uh, need any sorts of documents made up or do you have—"

"I have it."

Peter took his eyes off the road briefly to look over at his CI. "You said it was several years ago. You still have it? You sure?"

"I'm good."

"Unexpired?"

"Unexpired," Neal repeated, still text messaging.

Peter suspected the recipient of the texting was also the same individual that was aiding Neal to reclaim his old alias among many other things. Mozzie. He sighed but didn't say anything. The less he questioned the details perhaps the less it would contribute to his sure-to-develop ulcer. One thing he trusted Mozzie on was to take care of Neal to the extent he could. Bad influence or not, the guy shared a mutual interest in keeping their friend safe.

Neal looked up in time to see them take the onramp to the FDR. "Where is the warehouse?"

"Queens," Peter answered.

"Queens is big," Neal answered. "Where?"

"Border of LIC and Astoria." Peter glanced over again, watching Neal's attention to the phone. "Neal. Who are you texting that to?"

"I didn't text that to anyone," Neal answered. He dropped the phone in his lap for a moment and leaned over in his seat to gaze out at the East River and the view of Brooklyn as they headed north. "So is my radius going to change for this or are we taking the anklet off?" He turned his gaze back to Peter with an innocent expression.

Peter paused. It was safer to send Neal undercover without the device, as much as they might have hesitated early on in his agreement. Even Hughes acknowledged that now. There was no quicker way to be seen as a rat than someone noticing that piece of hardware. But no one was immediately going undercover, so the question seemed premature. "Probably off, Neal," he conceded. "But not until you actually go in as Willy. Which won't be until the background check and some other planning happens. And once that happens, we'll need some sort of surveillance on you. It'll be a day or two to get set up."

"Of course. Surveillance on me," Neal said, a little sarcastically.

"Neal, you always have some sort of surveillance undercover. Remember? Just like Jones. Just like Diana. Just like any of my agents. We need to know where you are and we need ears with you. You're no different."

"I'm not?" Neal replied, tilting his head sideways against the passenger seat headrest to look at Peter. "So you also insisted they tell you what they were up to last night, then?"

"Are we back to this, Neal?" Peter sighed. He was hopeful the discussion at the office would be the last of it. He had seen it in Neal's eyes as soon as the break-in was mentioned in the conference room. And at that moment, his heart had broken a bit because the look was a mix of disappointment and betrayal. He never predicted the day he'd feel emotion towards a conman, but here they were. Peter had then in that moment regretted his approach; that he hadn't mentioned the break-in to Neal right away that morning. "I thought we agreed to be done with this conversation."

"So did you? Ask them about where they were?"

"No," Peter responded. Peter stared at the traffic ahead of them, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "Of course not. And you know that." He wanted to be at the warehouse and away from this conversation.

"Of course not?" Neal repeated. "So do you think that's fair? "

"Oh stop." Peter cast a disapproving look Neal's way. "Don't tell me what's 'fair.' Do I need to remind you that you're out on a deal that others in your situation would beg for? And that deal gives me the right to know your whereabouts whenever I need to. Undercover or not."

"You don't do that with the others."

"No. I don't. They're not my responsibility. You are. Besides, I never _insisted_ you tell me what you did last night. Only if there was anything I should know about."

"Like a break-in," Neal deadpanned.

Peter ignored the remark and gripped his hands even harder on the steering wheel. "Moving on. Let's talk about what's in the warehouse, Neal. Job number one. It's a lot of work in there."

"Two-forty-six." Neal turned his head back to the road.

"Yes. We need your help to do a more detailed inventory of the art," Peter explained. They had gone through this with Hughes back at the conference room debriefing but he felt the need to reiterate. "What's fake, what's not. Take detailed notes. Anything notable we should be aware of. To track origin or otherwise. You know. The works. You up for it?"

Neal nodded and let a little enthusiasm glisten through as the thought of the prospects in front of him returned. The resentfulness seemed squashed once more. "Yes. Of course."

"Good." This was the part of the case on which Peter hoped Neal would shine. And he hoped that gleam of enthusiasm he saw was enough to put Neal's underhanded comments on the break-in to rest once and for all. He knew Neal was hurt by any sense of suspicion towards him, but Peter didn't know what to say further. So he stayed on track with the case. "If possible, we also need you to help us identify the forger… Is it the same person, multiple, etcetera… Any information on that is critical."

A moment of silence passed. Then Neal slowly asked, "Why the forger?"

"Because, Neal. That could become a whole alternate path of this case. We get these guys on selling the forgeries, sure, that's one thing. But to get the forgers themselves… That would take a huge chink out of the armor of this underground industry. Without them, it doesn't exist. If we track that origin, even of a few of them, the good ones, then this is huge."

Neal was again quiet for a moment. Then he replied, "You know, I bet there's a ton. I bet it's not one person. There could be dozens. More."

Peter glanced over at him again, and noticed Neal's attention had turned back to the passenger side view of the skyline and river again. "Maybe, Neal. But I'd wager there are a few key ones." He turned his eyes back to the road. "And you never know. Maybe you'll know some of them. Like you said, you expect to have some overlap potentially, right?"

"Right… Overlap…" Neal fell silent again and then decided to change the topic. "Are you taking the bridge or tunnel?"

Peter gave him another quick look. "Uh…" He returned his focus to the traffic in front of him. "I was planning on the bridge. Free, after all. Why? Do you have a preference?"

"Bridge," Neal responded.

"You got it. Bridge it is."


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks SO MUCH for the reviews. It's such a motivation to keep writing. I really appreciate it, so thank you to those who take the time to leave a few words after reading. You make my day. I'm glad there's some people enjoying this story. I was able to find a lot of time to write this week, so getting this update up a little earlier than I originally expected.

* * *

Neal's mind raced a mile a minute the remainder of the car-ride to the warehouse, and he internally cursed the traffic that slowed them from getting to their destination. Normally he would enjoy the trip over the 59th Street Bridge, halfway across which he would always peer back to catch a view of the Empire State building and the rest of the skyline. But it was a hard ride to enjoy today. Peter continued to prod him into conversation along the way, obviously excited about the case. Neal answered as needed in simple sentences, wanting to seem interested but also not trusting his thoughts.

He still felt anticipation for the case itself as well, and he was looking forward to going undercover, but those feelings were now once again laced with anxiety. The more Peter spoke, the more apprehensive Neal felt about the information he was withholding. He didn't know if it was guilt or just nervousness. Either way, he hated the feeling. At one point he tried to turn on the radio to distract from the discussion, but found his hand slapped away. Peter wanted to talk. He didn't try again.

He would admit he was happy Peter was enthusiastic about the case. He enjoyed working with Peter on a good investigation, and liked learning how the man's mind worked on these cases. But Peter's questions on theories of different connections and what they might find in their investigation only made Neal's stomach turn. Especially now that the focus seemed to be on the actual forgers themselves. Usually he enjoyed speculating on cases with his handler. It could be fun brainstorming with him. But this time Peter kept suggesting Neal might make certain acquaintances from his network to build a case. While a part of Neal felt motivated the he could provide that to Peter successfully, the circumstances around his already known connections made him edgy. Peter thought these would be _new_ acquaintances, not existing ones.

"You okay?" Peter asked him at one point as they navigated their way north from Long Island City.

"Yeah, why?" Neal threw a quick glance Peter's way before returning his eyes to the road. He wondered if somehow his internal debate was obvious to Peter and tried not to frown. He wished the man would simply focus on getting to their destination.

"You're kind of quiet," Peter answered. "I thought you'd have more ideas on the case."

"I will. I'm just thinking," Neal replied, keeping his tone even. It was true. Peter thankfully seemed to accept that. Neal considered again trying for the radio at that moment but held back.

Fortunately when they finally got to their journey's end was when Neal found another distraction from his own thoughts and unease.

The warehouse was to Neal the equivalent of a toy store to a child. From the outside, it was a nondescript brick building that took up the corner of an industrial block. On the inside, it was spacious with tall ceilings and broad cement-made rooms. After going through security and showing their credentials at the main entrance to the two agents posted there, they were directed to one particular room. When they entered it, Neal felt a surge of eagerness.

The room didn't disappoint. There was art everywhere. It was spread across the space in excess volume. So much it was hard for him to take it all in at first glance. It seemed countless. Leaning against walls. On tables. Tubes of rolled up pieces. He couldn't hold back his smile. He'd been anxious to get a chance to start to go through it and was nervously excited at the scenarios of the unknown as he saw it spread out in front of him.

And in that nervous excitement, his feelings shifted back and forth across the spectrum of nervous and excited. He had to admit that his initial thought walking into the room was, _Are any of these mine_? But he tried to put that aside for now, despite Peter's earlier comments from the car-ride haunting him slightly. 'Maybe you know some of them,' Peter had said of the forgers.

He rationalized that if something of his happened to be here, he could just say he didn't recognize the origin of those pieces. Or he could claim that they belonged to another forger. The prideful side of him bristled at the thought of assigning someone else the credit of his work. And both were lies.

 _You don't even know if any of these are yours,_ he reminded himself as his eyes surveyed the room. _It might not even matter._ He couldn't get a good look at anything from his current view, so he tried not to jump to conclusions as his heart pounded in his chest.

The expectation was that a majority, if not all, of the pieces would be fakes, but the quality of the replication was said to be high-end. Neal was looking forward to seeing what the other forgers were capable of. And he was really hoping that buried within the inventory there might be something real as well. He tried to think about that versus the possibility of being reunited with his old work.

Peter and Neal got an overview of the warehouse layout from another agent that met them just after they went through security. The middle-aged agent, Doug, with graying hair and deep brown eyes, briefly took them around and showed them where everything had been organized how it had been catalogued.

Everything was documented, numbered, and had brief descriptions in addition to a photograph. All of this had been entered into a file on a laptop that contained all the details the FBI agents had collected from before and since the warrant had been issued. As Peter had directed him on the ride over, Neal was to validate, add his own notes and corrections, and more importantly he was to escalate immediately if he recognized any of the forgers or made any other connections.

The FBI had organized the art across the wide room by the size of the piece. Neal scoffed at that.

"By size?" he repeated in amazement after Doug said it. "Seriously? Why not medium or the style of the piece? Why size?"

"Neal," Peter warned, shaking his head. "Come on."

"What?" Neal answered back incredulously. He looked at Peter with disbelieving blue eyes. "C'mon? Peter. That's just stupid. Why would someone organize it that way?"

"Neal, do you want to go through this stuff or do you want to criticize the organizational approach of our agents?"

"It's just of all the possible–"

"Enough. Do you want to look at the pieces or not, Neal?"

"Yes. I do."

"So get over it. It's sorted by size. You can rearrange it to your heart's content," Peter answered in exasperation. "If that helps you analyze what we've got, then by all means… Rearrange away…"

Neal curtailed his critique by swallowing back the additional comments that were on the tip of his tongue.

Doug finished off the tour by showing them how to access the password-protected laptop as well as providing a few more tips on the facilities. He then received a phone call and excused himself to step out, leaving Peter and Neal to themselves.

"This is going to take days," Neal said aloud, turning slowly to view the amount of pieces that lay across tables in the room. It wasn't a complaint. He smiled.

Peter eyed his expression warily. "Remember you're here to do a job, Neal. And that job is not to ogle the art, but to validate it and any other details you pick up on. You do that, you move to the next piece, and then to the next. Got it?"

"Ogle?"

"We need to do this efficiently. If you need days, fine. But the sooner we do this, the sooner the case moves on and we lock down the guilty parties. If you treat this like the last time you dragged me to the Met, you'll never finish."

Neal sent him a glare at the reference.

"Am I wrong?" Peter persisted when he saw Neal's expression.

"Of course you are," Neal answered irritably. "But this is different." Peter sometimes had no appreciation for the finer things. But he didn't elaborate on it, despite wanting to tell Peter that his poor experience last time at the Met was his own doing. Neal recalled the event. At one point, Peter had physically moved Neal from one of the exhibits onto the next like they were in a rush to get through it. Neal had been furious. However, rather than commenting on this, instead Neal looked thoughtfully across the room, starting to frown. "Peter… I need a few things… and I have a few questions"

"Okay…" Peter said slowly, tentatively. He rested his hands casually on his hips as he studied his younger partner, whose focus was now locked on the contents of the room. "Tactical things first. What do you need? And please make them real needs, Neal."

"They are. I need a few tools." Neal turned around to face the older man again. "I can start looking through this now, but to do this right I'm going to need a couple things like a magnifier, ultraviolet light, and gloves, and… And can I somehow get better lighting in general?" He stared up at the fluorescent lights of the warehouse skeptically, squinting in exaggeration. "I mean, maybe you can't, but…"

Peter sighed. The requests were actually reasonable considering what Neal had to do. "Alright. Let me see what we can do. I'll see what I can scrounge up quickly. And your questions?"

Neal paused, looking around the room again, running his hand through his hair. "Can I come here anytime?"

Peter hesitated before answering. "Anytime, meaning what exactly, Neal…?"

Neal shrugged. "I mean, like at night or day. Anytime."

Peter frowned at the question but nodded slowly. "I guess if you wanted to... I mean, the quicker we do this…"

"Exactly." Neal paused. "Can I bring the laptop home?"

Peter's frown deepened. He knew everything was backed up on the FBI servers. It was perhaps a practical request if Neal wanted to go through the photographs that had been taken of the pieces after hours. Working at home was not discouraged. "If you promise to bring it back in one piece."

"I will." Another pause. "Am I doing this and going undercover concurrently? Because if so–"

"Don't get ahead of yourself. Remember we need a day or two before you can be Willy, Neal. This you can start now. See how much you get through in those couple days, okay?"

Neal paused. He pursed his lips briefly. "So let me recap to see if I get this correct… I can be here whenever I want, yet this isn't in my radius. Kind of a Catch-22."

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. "We'll add it. Alright, Neal? I'll call them right after this."

Neal's look turned thoughtful. It was rare when things got added to his radius. Usually Peter threatened to reduce his radius, not expand it. He wondered what else was nearby to explore while he had the extra geography, but tried to leave that curiosity out of his expression. He also wondered if there could be a way at the end of this for them to forget to remove the new territory from his radius… He realized he was thinking ahead of himself and needed to focus on the present. So he turned back to Peter and gave him an earnest look. "Peter, do you think Mozzie can be in here? Without questions?"

Peter cast his eyes heavenward while shaking his head in exasperation at the question. "Neal… Are you serious? Come on. He's not—"

"I know he's not. But he can help," Neal insisted. And he would be blown away by the amount of pieces in here, Neal thought to himself.

"I don't doubt he can…" Peter said slowly, hesitating in committing. If he were even going to consider allowing it, he'd need to run the clearance by Hughes. Maybe another set of eyes wouldn't hurt. But he wasn't ready to decide that just yet. He gave Neal a skeptical look instead. "Before I ever consider something like that, do you notice something about this room, Neal?"

Neal paused, frowning. He looked around the room again slowly and then shook his head. "Like what?"

"I'll give you a hint. It pairs nicely with the security you came through to get in here." At no response, Peter gestured his hand to the corners of the room. "Cameras. Multiple. Watching. Get it?"

Neal's frown turned into a look of disdain. "Peter… What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means this is an atmosphere that I really don't see your little friend being interested in experiencing," Peter responded bluntly, raising his eyebrows as if to challenge him to disagree. "You saw the security when we came through the entrance here. Do you really think he wants to expose himself to that?"

"Depends what's in here…" Neal responded with a smirk.

Peter just chuckled. "Yeah. Right… Well in that case, I'm not sure if I want him here. Your fingers tend to become a little bit stickier when he's around." As Neal glared at him, not finding humor in his joke, Peter glanced at his watch. "I'm going to need to go back soon to meet with Hughes, Neal. Do you want to get started here?"

"Now?" Neal took another look around the room. He was _very_ ready to get started, but he didn't want to appear overly overeager to Peter. "Sure," he said nonchalantly. "But I'll need those tools before I can do any real work." His fingers itched to start going through the pieces. Tools be damned. He wanted to see what they had…

"I know. I'll have Diana help track that stuff down…"

Neal looked over to Peter innocuously. "So you're going to leave me here?"

"You okay with that?" Peter paused. "Look, I was never planning to stay here and hover over you, Neal. You'll do more with me out of the way. Just be smart. Call me if you find anything we should talk about…" His brow furrowed as he studied Neal. "You need me to pick you up later?"

Neal shook his head. "No, that's okay. I might be late. I'll take a cab."

"You sure? And you think you can get a cab from here?" Peter looked skeptical. It was a fairly industrial area. "I can come back – it's not a big deal."

"No. Peter… I'll manage." He smirked. "You know… If I had my bike already, then –"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…" Peter waved a hand to cut him off. "Your bike. Stop it with that already. I swear El is going to wring your neck." He sighed. "And probably mine… Look, just call me if you change your mind. But consider this warehouse your office for the near-term… You can stay as late as you want. I'll call you later to check-in."

"Got it." Neal nodded, keeping his eyes on the rest of the room and not Peter. He allowed a small smile to cross his face.

"Behave, please," Peter said slowly. "I'll talk to you later."

"Later, Peter." Neal continued nodding. He waited until he heard Peter's receding footsteps and looked over to confirm the man had left.

He then immediately walked towards the nearest table of pieces, drawn to it like a magnet, smiling broadly.

* * *

When Neal returned to his apartment later that night, Mozzie had turned the kitchen table into a Messier crime board. There were pictures, cutouts of text, pages of handwritten scribbled notes, and other artifacts covering every inch of his table. As Neal closed the apartment door behind himself and slowly approached the kitchen, he only glanced at this table curiously for a moment before noticing the large glass of wine next to Mozzie on the kitchen counter.

"Neal," Mozzie greeted as his friend returned home. "I thought you said to meet you here 'after work' today." He glanced at his watch. "It's nearly nine o'clock. Did I miss a memo?"

"It is after work," Neal responded slowly as he neared him. "Technically speaking at least. But yes, I got carried away. And then it took a while to get a cab." He reached for Mozzie's glass and took a long sip of the wine. He glanced at his friend. "Cotes du Rhone?"

"Indeed." Mozzie eyed him skeptically. "Care to get your own glass, my friend? And carried away with what?"

Neal took another sip of the wine before returning the glass to its place, and moved himself to be beside Mozzie, leaning back against his counter in a similar position to his friend. "I got carried away with the art."

The corners of Mozzie's lips slowly turned into a smile, replacing his previous frown. "The art? Oh yeah? You got in?"

"I got in," Neal affirmed. He cast Mozzie a look sideways and smiled back. "It's in a warehouse in Queens. I was there for four hours. And I didn't even get through half of it." He paused. "Two hundred and sixty three pieces."

"And?" Mozzie persisted. "Was the Suit with you?"

"In the beginning," Neal answered. He gestured towards the table. "You look like you've been busy as well, Moz. Perhaps for once my tardiness was to a benefit."

"Yes, I was busy as well," Mozzie agreed. "But enough about me. We'll get to that." He waved his own hand towards the table. "More important things first. I haven't heard nearly enough about what you've got in that warehouse, Neal."

Neal took a deep breath, pressing his lips together. He gave Mozzie a sidelong look once again. "Well…"

"Well is where we get water, Neal," Mozzie said abruptly. "Talk." He moved away briefly, reaching up to open a cabinet and to take out a wine glass. He set it on the counter beside Neal and then reached for the bottle, pouring the younger man a generous glass.

Neal reached over for the glass and took a sip from it before he started to talk. "Thanks." He met Mozzie's eye and saw his friend's eager expression as he waited for more details. "So it's kind of a goldmine, Moz… I mean, there's nothing actually authentic so far. I don't think so, at least. But it's a jackpot of inventory… I mean, these guys are good."

"How good?"

"Good," Neal affirmed.

"Yet nothing authentic?"

"Would seem authentic to many people…" He paused. "Though I haven't got the tools yet to look up close."

"Interesting…" Mozzie nodded as he listened. "And any Caffrey originals yet?"

Neal sent Mozzie a contemptuous look in response. But then he cast his eyes downward for a moment. "One. So far."

"Seriously?"

Neal looked back up, catching Mozzie's surprised face. "Yes, seriously." He frowned. "Not my best. But yes, definitely one of mine."

"So only one of two sixty-three."

"Only one in the _half_ I got through, yes."

"Feel better, then?"

"Not really."

"Why not?" Mozzie shook his head dismissively. "What about the others?"

"The ones that aren't mine? What about them? They're good. I mean… There a few throw-aways so far, but… These guys are good. Really good."

"You know any of them?"

"The forgers? Really, Moz? You sound like Peter…" Neal made a face.

Mozzie didn't like that and showed it in his expression. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Neal returned the look with one of contempt. "Peter wants me to provide as much information as possible. Particularly on origin of the pieces… Which means forgers."

"So do you know any of them?"

"Other than myself?" Neal gave a small smile. He again took another long sip of wine, feeling it calm him slightly. "I'm pretty sure I could figure a couple out. You know some of us like to sign our work."

Mozzie raised his eyebrows. "Ah, yes. And did you sign yours?"

"I've been asking myself that," Neal admitted. "The one I found today, yes, I did. But I actually don't think Peter or anyone would notice… It's discreet. I only knew where to look because I did it."

"You're sure about that?"

Neal sighed and gave Mozzie a look. "Really, Moz?" he asked skeptically. "Trying to help boost my confidence?"

"Never knew you to have a confidence problem."

"Moz."

"Neal." Mozzie gave him a look. "What else? What kind of pieces are we talking about? Anything you think we can fence?"

"There's cameras everywhere and on top of that everything is photographed and numbered." Neal had been expecting this sort of question from Mozzie, and he'd been ready with that response.

"So…?" Mozzie responded slowly, taking a sip of his own wine. "Has that ever stopped us before, mon frère? You put something in its place. This isn't a national art gallery we're talking about. It's a warehouse."

Neal looked thoughtful. He admitted a similar concept had crossed his mind while at the warehouse himself. "An FBI warehouse," he corrected. "And I don't know. Besides, there's nothing yet that I would recommend being worth the trouble."

"No? You said it's good."

"It is," Neal acknowledged. "But I haven't had a chance to really take a look. I need more time."

"Then take your time."

Neal tilted his head to the side, picking up on his friend's tone. "Moz… I don't know how many angles I can play on this case. Really."

"Sure you can. Depending on the right angle, Neal, then we'll play it. Be smart."

Neal sighed again. Peter had told him to be smart too. Interestingly his two friends had very different definitions of smart.

"Neal…" Mozzie began with another sip of his wine. "Why do I hear a rumbling of a rusty conscience here? Do you still have your head in the clouds?"

"Moz, I just got in there today…" Neal started, defending himself from the impending criticism. "Let me take a look at the rest of the inventory and then I'll let you know." He closed his eyes briefly. "Speaking of angles… I wanted to talk to you about some ideas I had for getting back in with Jason."

"Jason," Moz echoed. "Yes. I've got some details on Jason I wanted to discuss as well."

"You do?" Neal took his glass and pushed himself away from the counter, walking towards the table to finally assess what Mozzie had put together. "Like what?" He looked over the photographs and the various details his friend had gathered.

"Where do you want to start?" Mozzie responded, following Neal to the table. "What do you already know?"

"I'm not sure," Neal admitted. "It's been roughly ten years." He swirled the wine in his glass distractedly. "Tell me everything you know."

"Well to start, the guy's dangerous, Neal. Did you know that?"

Neal wasn't completely surprised at this comment, but it also wasn't what he first expected to hear. He slowly took a seat at the table. "I mean…" he started slowly, "I guess I've heard some things, but never saw it first hand."

"Well, take it from me, Neal. He's more than an art collector, that's for sure."

The earlier conference room conversation returned to Neal, particularly the comments around Jason being a suspect in a murder-kidnapping. "I don't think he's ever been convicted of anything violent," he said tentatively.

Mozzie took his own seat at the table across from Neal. "You and I both know convictions are not indicative of a man's true past, Neal," he said solemnly. "Let me take you through what I've got." He then frowned, studying Neal carefully. "By the way, how are your current bartending skills?"

Neal responded with a skeptical expression. "Uh…" He gestured to the two glasses of wine in front of them. "This not good enough?"

"Well, first of all, I poured these glasses, and not you. And you may actually need something stronger after I fill you in on this." He waved his hand at the information on the table. "But not what I meant. I think you may have a part-time job opening to apply to in order to get into this circle…"

"Not me," Neal answered slowly. "Willy…"

"Yes. Willy. Of course. So how are Willy's bartending skills?"

Neal simply smiled.


	12. Chapter 12

Thank you again to those supporting this story. You are keeping me writing! This is a longer chapter but I blame Neal for not keeping himself out of trouble.

* * *

The next day, Neal was determined to make several strides forward in the case. One focus was the backstory he needed to fill, and the second was his need to make a lot more progress at the warehouse. Peter picked him up in the morning to take him over to Queens, which already saved time, and Peter had also been successful in procuring all of the items that Neal had requested, with the expected exception of being unable to change the overall lighting at the building.

With these tools, Neal would finally be able to start to go through the art with keener scrutiny. The previous day, his initial approach was to reorganize the pieces with a high level assessment laced with an excitement to just get a sense of what he had on his hands. He didn't re-number anything, at least yet, as to be able to tie the pieces back to the notes already made in the file, but he was tempted to after he started to review the file itself and was dismayed at the lack of culture these agents clearly seemed to have.

"The notes are pathetic," he told Peter when they arrived at the warehouse that morning. "You might as well have hired preschoolers to document the work."

"Neal, that's a little harsh…" Peter responded, though he chuckled slightly.

"Or monkeys."

"Stop…"

"I'm serious, Peter. I'm actually being polite here. A person actually noted in the file that one of the pieces was rectangular in shape. I mean… Really?" Neal shook his head in astonishment. "Another wrote that a piece contained the colors blue and white. Not a single comment on the actual subject of the painting. They might as well have just described what they ate for breakfast."

"Okay, okay…" Peter acknowledged, smirking with slight amusement at Neal's obvious frustration. "So we didn't have Art History majors do the inventory. I get it, Neal. Duly noted once again. But we needed a valid count and basic descriptions."

"Well, you got basic alright," Neal muttered. "Whether they can actually count is another story."

"That's why it's a good thing we have you, right?" Peter clapped him on the shoulder with a sarcastic smile. "You can edit the hell out of the file, Neal. Count away. Earn your keep."

Neal rolled his eyes but silently agreed. That's exactly what he intended to do.

Peter then shifted to another topic, talking briefly about the upcoming undercover plans.

"I'll get confirmation on Willy's history later this morning," he said. "And barring no issues there, which you seem confident there won't be, then we can finalize getting you the green light. Hughes wants to chat a little later on what surveillance we can have on you."

Surveillance, Neal thought cynically. His favorite topic. He bit back a snarky response to that and simply nodded, masking his feelings through a nonchalant expression. "Sure," he forced out, trying to avoid his tone being too stiff. He wanted Peter to leave so he could be alone at the warehouse to strategically get back into the inventory, and kicking off a skeptical conversation on surveillance would elicit either a lecture or a debate, neither of which he had time or patience for.

"Just come back to the office later this afternoon," Peter continued, "and we can talk about it. We need to confirm your point of contact as well, and then we can figure out next steps."

"I already have a point of contact."

Peter studied him, his eyes conveying a mix of suspicion and uneasiness. "Come back to the office later this afternoon," he repeated. "We'll talk."

Neal was about to tell him there was nothing to talk about, because it had to be done his way, but stopped himself before the words left his mouth. He simply agreed with an earnest nod and a smile. It was a successful response. With that, Peter left the warehouse.

As his handler left, Neal realized he'd have to be cautious with his re-acquaintance with Jason. Especially if the FBI would have eyes and ears on him at that moment. But that he would worry about later. First, the warehouse…

Neal was pleased that he was able to be here on his own. He was surprised at how willingly Peter left him there, but knew Peter was likely comforted by the amount of security and video coverage in the building. He could probably literally request access to the footage to watch Neal as if he was there.

He wondered if maybe he had already done that.

When the thought crossed his mind, his immediate next question to himself was, _Why do you assume it's the security detail giving him comfort and not him actually trusting you?_

 _Because maybe he shouldn't trust me_ , Neal immediately answered himself internally.

That made his stomach flip-flop, and he quickly dismissed the thought, glancing discreetly at the cameras in the corners of the room. He wasn't even sure they were in working order. They looked older. He decided later that morning to test whether anyone was actually paying attention to them…

In the meantime, he continued to reorganize the paintings and sketches across the room. From the left side of the room to right, he first began sorting the pieces that looked most legitimate. There were a few 'throw-aways' as he had mentioned to Mozzie. He was surprised that anyone would have been fooled by those in particular, but at the same time, he acknowledged the average person would probably not know what to look for. He would focus on those lackluster pieces last, if at all.

Within the credible inventory, he started to sort by style. The Impressionist pieces he began to put in one corner. The Baroque pieces went separately in their own section. Fauvism went over in another. Pointillism over there. He continued to make these separate partitions of art, moving around the room methodically.

It was almost therapeutic.

Until he had to start a separate section of its own that he wasn't necessarily expecting to. This had a mix of styles. This was the Caffrey section.

* * *

Neal humored Peter, Jones, and Diana later that afternoon when he returned to the office to go over some of the tactical plans of his undercover mission. They sat in the same conference room as the previous day. He did not want to be there – he wanted to be back at the warehouse – but he knew he had to be to get the rest of this assignment underway if they were to make the quick traction that Hughes expected.

What they wanted him to wear for 'surveillance' was pretty standard. A watch would serve as both a bug and a location device with a small microphone and tracking device implanted inside. At the suggestion he wear a small, discreet earpiece as well, he immediately shook his head.

"Not happening."

"Why not?" Diana asked him. "If you don't have that, we can hear you but you can't hear us."

"I know. That's fine," Neal answered. More than fine, he thought. "If I need you, I'll call."

"You sure?"

"Trust me, I'm sure." The last thing he needed was the FBI micromanaging his efforts and giving him conversation pointers.

Diana didn't argue but sent Peter a look. Peter shrugged and looked like he wasn't about to argue either, which Neal felt relieved about.

"And my anklet?" Neal asked.

"When we're ready, it'll come off," Peter said slowly. "Not before. By the way, Neal. Got the paperwork back on your alias… Thought you said I wouldn't find anything. Something you forgot about?"

Neal frowned. There shouldn't have been any criminal paper trail on Willy. That alias was completely clean. He was sure of it. "There shouldn't be anything," he persisted out loud. "What do you mean? Like what?"

"How about three thousand dollars of unpaid parking tickets?"

Jones whistled, chuckling to himself with a small grin. "Oh boy."

"What? I had a… a few, maybe," Neal answered in surprise. He frowned as he tried to think back. It was a long time ago. Parking in midtown Manhattan was challenging, even for motorcycles. "Not three thousand dollars worth."

"Try seven tickets," Peter responded, giving him a look. He then smirked, looking more amused than annoyed. "With compound interest over nine years. Adds up."

Neal's brow furrowed further. "Well, that doesn't seem fair."

Peter shook his head. "Fair or not... Anyway. We took care of it…" he answered slowly. "Just try not to rack up any this time or you'll pay for them yourself…"

Neal nodded, still a little taken by surprise that there was any sort of paper trail on this alias but dismissing the concern quickly given Peter didn't seem bothered by it. "Otherwise nothing on record, right?"

"Right," Peter confirmed. "Otherwise spotless."

"You drive, Caffrey?" Jones asked skeptically. "I didn't know you had a license."

"I drive," Neal affirmed, giving the other agent a brief glance. "Of course I drive."

"Of course? I knew you could hotwire anything with a motor, sure," Jones continued, chuckling again. "But I've never seen you actually drive something that wasn't a getaway."

"Then I guess you haven't seen much," Neal responded casually, curtailing his desire to make a stronger comment. He didn't appreciate Jones's insinuation but also didn't want to start an argument. His emotional side prickled at the comment. Of course he could drive. He forced himself to dismiss it and tried to move the conversation along. "So when can I go live?"

"We've had agents monitoring Messier since he was released," Diana began. "He's been laying really low, mostly at home. Hasn't been back to the office. Very few calls in and out of his landline." She paused. "One visit by Jason McDonald."

 _Hilks_ , Neal wanted to say. "A visit at his home?"

"Yes."

Peter's cell phone started to ring and he pushed his chair back, stepping away from the table to take it. He took a few steps outside the room, as he flipped it open, stating, "Burke," into the device as he walked out of earshot of the group still in the room.

"Jason has also stopped by the office," Diana continued. "Along with one other person we didn't have on the list. They came separately, and they didn't spend much time there. I mean, there's not much there now as it is." She looked at Neal quizzically. "Also, Peter said you might have a point of contact. But he didn't say what."

Neal nodded, surprised but relieved that it sounded as though Peter had taken his earlier comment seriously. Maybe this would be easier than anticipated if Peter let him take the lead. "There's a bar," he shared. "Jason goes there almost every night. That's where I'm going to start."

"A bar," Diana echoed skeptically.

"Yeah. He's a regular. And I'm about to become a bartender there."

"Does Peter – "

"He doesn't know the details yet," Neal started.

"You think he'll like the details?"

Neal shrugged. "It'll work. It's a really easy way in."

"Getting to know him as a bartender?" she responded doubtfully. "Why would he give you the time of day?"

Neal smiled at her, withholding the words 'Because I already know him' from the tip of his tongue. Instead he said, "I make a really mean martini."

"I'm sure."

"I do."

Peter reappeared at that moment in the doorway of the conference room. He closed his cell phone and returned it to his pocket. "Neal," he said. "Come here."

Neal looked up and caught Peter's eye, not at all liking the tone in which he heard his name. The man also suddenly looked irritated. But why? It wasn't the parking tickets. Neal hesitated, frozen in his seat. What had happened? What was the phone call? He'd just confirmed Willy was clean. What else could it be?

"Now," Peter said stiffly when there was no movement.

Neal pushed back his chair and frowned, getting to his feet slowly. He walked out of the room and reluctantly joined Peter outside, not before casting a quick glance back at Diana and Jones. They both looked at him briefly with shrugs before starting their own forced small talk as though to try to ignore the obvious change of their boss's demeanor outside the room.

"Peter, what is it?" Neal asked the man earnestly once outside with him. He could feel his pulse quicken.

Peter gave him a disapproving look, crossing his arms over his chest. "Neal," he started, tone low and stern. "I'm only going to ask you this once. And I can't believe I have to. Did you cover the cameras at the warehouse?"

Neal blinked. He stared back at Peter. "What?"

"Don't give me that face, like you have no idea what I'm talking about," Peter responded gruffly, shaking his head. "And don't answer me with a question. _Did_ you?"

Neal paused, listening to the background sound of voices across the office and distant ringing phones. That was it? That was the phone call? He really had to stop jumping to conclusions every time Peter said his name. Here he was worried that there was something else in his past alias or some other past indiscretion coming back to haunt him. He suddenly relaxed and then smirked. "Yes. But nearly six hours ago… Did they really just notice now?"

"You think tampering with FBI security cameras is funny?" Peter retorted curtly.

It was funny. But Neal neither confirmed nor denied that due to his handler's seriously unimpressed tone. "Peter… It took them six hours to notice… Six hours. That's kind of crazy, right?"

Peter's expression darkened. "Neal. I told you I wouldn't be there to hover over you. That was on the condition that you're _smart_ ," Peter said firmly. He poked Neal in the shoulder, hard. "You think that's smart?"

Neal rubbed his shoulder briefly from the contact. "Apparently smarter than the security team over there if–"

"Neal. I am not kidding."

"Me neither. I was just testing the security. To see how tight it is."

"Just testing the security?" As an eye roll started, Peter reached out and took Neal by the arm, pulling him closer, so they were just inches from each other. He kept his hand gripped on his arm. "You could have just asked. It's tight," Peter responded stiffly.

Six hours tight, Neal wanted to answer. Then he did. He couldn't help it. "Six hours tight. They noticed after I'd already left. Maybe you should be more mad that an FBI facility has shitty security," Neal responded facetiously, knowing he was crossing the line. "That isn't my fault. Maybe you should be thanking me for highlighting it." After the precarious comment, he winced slightly, fearing the reaction.

First he was silent, just staring at him with an incensed gaze. Then Peter squeezed his arm even harder, and leaned in. "Enough. Don't be a smartass. You've seen me angry. Want to see it again?"

"No," Neal admitted. He shivered slightly at Peter's tone.

"Six hours," Peter said, repeating Neal's comment from a moment ago. He raised his eyebrows. "And what exactly did you do over the six hours that you knew the video was down?"

"It wasn't down, per se," Neal corrected slowly. "It was still up; it was just… obstructed."

"Semantics. That's great, Neal. Your favorite game. What'd you do?"

Neal frowned, not at all liking the expression that Peter had on his face nor his tone. It was one of not just aggravation but also of suspicion. He once again got the feeling that Peter did not trust him. And that made his gut feel twisted inside. It hurt, but it also made him feel angry along with a whole bunch of other emotions he didn't want to sort out or process. "What did I do?" he echoed. "What do you even mean by that?"

"I mean, what did you _do_ , Neal? You covered the cameras. Why? To do what, exactly? You just said you had it obstructed for six hours."

Neal grew increasingly exasperated. "Are you serious?" These types of moments made him question everything. He thought he was close with Peter. He thought he could trust him. Now he felt conflicted. "What'd I do…." he repeated flippantly. "Well, _obviously_ , Peter, I covered the cameras so I could commit some sort of heinous crime. Mozzie came in the back door, we did tequila shots, murdered three of the guards, let in some hookers, and then smuggled the real Picasso and Degas from the inventory out of the building."

Peter did not look amused. "I'm being serious, Neal."

"Me too," Neal shot back irritably. He glared at his handler. "I didn't do anything, Peter."

Peter eyed him warily, as though he wasn't sure how to react. "If that's true, then why'd you cover the cameras in the first place? You had to have a reason."

"Want to go there with me now?" Neal persisted, voice rising. "You can count every goddamn piece yourself. Check the crappy notes of your agents against what's there. It's all _still_ there, because I didn't _do_ anything." His voice shook slightly, and he cursed himself, but he felt _hurt_ and _angry_ from the unspoken accusation. Every action of his was dissected by Peter, and it appeared to always be under a distorted, negative lens.

Why was he even defending himself? He shouldn't have to, he thought irritably. "Why don't we do that?" he challenged. "Let's do that right now."

"No, Neal. I don't _want_ to go over there," Peter responded firmly. His mouth was a thin line. "I _want_ to believe you."

"Then believe me," Neal answered bitterly. "You know I didn't do anything there, Peter."

"That I can currently prove," Peter responded stiffly.

Neal sighed. While his heart raced with nervousness over this conversation, he also wanted to push Peter back, to stand up for himself. He'd honestly just been testing the reactiveness of the security at the warehouse. And yes, it had somewhat been for selfish reasons. If there was no detection of the cameras being covered and they remained that way tomorrow, then he would know he had a little bit of flexibility in what he could do in that room. But it wasn't really a big deal and he hadn't _yet_ done anything. Testing security wasn't a _bad_ thing, right? Neal was a little surprised at Peter's annoyance and frowned himself.

But as he thought about it, mind racing, he could also slightly start to understand Peter's side and began to feel a little more remorseful about what he had done and taken so lightly. Peter often said to put himself in his position, to better understand why Peter reacted the way he did to things. Doing that now, Neal could begin to realize how it looked. His actions did look bad. They looked suspicious. And reckless. That wasn't his intention. He tried to clarify.

"It wasn't my intention to look at all suspicious. It was just a test. It's also just paper, Peter," Neal explained. Maybe part of the man's anger was because he thought he damaged the cameras. "Just scotch tape and paper. I didn't… didn't damage anything."

Peter hesitated briefly. He took a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as he lowered his head for a second before looking back up at Neal again. He was still holding Neal by the arm with his other hand. He asked with forced calmness, "Then why did you do it?"

"I didn't do—"

"Stop," Peter interjected sharply. "Enough, Neal. You _did_ do something. You covered the cameras." He paused momentarily. "You understand? You covered the cameras," he repeated. "Why on earth would you do that?"

Neal looked first at the hand gripping his arm and then up at Peter's expression. He felt conflicted but also cornered. His first instinct was to respond with a typical 'I don't know,' but he knew that wouldn't get a good reaction. "Just to see if they'd notice," he answered honestly. "To see if you'd notice."

"Why?" Peter persisted.

"Just because," Neal responded. He winced as Peter's grip tightened. "I'm sorry," he said reflexively. "But I really did it just because. I wanted to test their reactiveness. That's all. Honest. The cameras looked really old."

"And you didn't do _anything_ else." It was a question, though Peter delivered it as a statement.

"I didn't," Neal insisted.

"And do not play your word games with me here. Were you _planning_ anything else?"

Neal didn't want to lie. He really didn't want to. But it was hard, especially being questioned like this. He didn't want to answer that question. Because giving Peter the answer he wanted, which Neal desired, would be a lie.

Peter seemed to see the wheels turning in Neal's head. He squeezed his arm again. "Neal."

"I don't know." Neal let out the admittance and closed his eyes. "I don't want to lie, Peter. I didn't plan anything specifically. I promise I didn't, but I can't say it wouldn't have crossed my mind tomorrow if no one had noticed what I did. If I went back tomorrow and they were still covered," he shrugged, "then I don't know. I hadn't gotten to tomorrow yet."

"Neal…" Peter said in an exhaled mutter at the honest answer. He turned his eyes briefly towards the ceiling in exasperation as he shook his head. "God dammit, Neal…."

"I can say no instead," Neal offered, hating the look on Peter's face and the disappointed manner he said his name. "If you want me to I'll say no. Because it's all completely hypothetical anyway, but I… I'm trying to be completely open here, Peter. And if I say 'no' then I wouldn't _really_ be honest, because the _possibility_ of _something_ at another time crossed my mind. And – "

"Stop. Just stop," Peter cut him off. "You're driving me crazy, do you know that?" Peter responded in clear frustration, giving Neal a trying look as he interrupted the ramble. "You are absolutely driving me crazy. Do you know that?"

"I'm sorry."

"The more you say that, Neal, the less I think you ever mean it," Peter said with a shake of his head. Peter didn't say anything for a moment, allowing a heavy moment to pass between them. Neal stayed absolutely still while Peter gazed at him solemnly.

Then Peter started to speak. "I don't think you're sorry. I think…" he said slowly, voice sincere, "if we're both being honest here, I _think_ you were really just testing the system…" He sighed, pausing again slightly, and then squeezed Neal's arm again, harder. "I want to think you just can't help it… That it's just what you do. You're wired that way. Like it's your gut instinct to just _test_ things like this. And it makes me wonder what else you're testing. But you need to _learn_ to _stop_. Understand? What do I do to get that in your head, Neal? You need to learn to help it."

Neal nodded silently, not trusting his voice but wanting to give Peter his attention and show him he agreed. Because now Peter was, despite painfully holding his arm, seemingly trying to be gentle. His voice had calmed. It was like somehow Neal's rambling attempt at a truthful answer had worked. Peter now seemed more perplexed and frustrated than angry. And Neal was somewhat confused at that, because he expected Peter to continue to show anger, but he didn't want to stir the pot by questioning it. Another apology was on the tip of his tongue, but he realized Peter was right. He didn't mean it. So instead he said nothing.

"I'm about to set you out on this case, without anklet, without much oversight," Peter continued, voice lowered. "I was planning to really let you lead this. Because I want to believe you can. But you keep making me wonder if that's a bad idea. Between this, and the stunt you pulled at the stakeout, I just… Every day you…" Peter cut himself off and shook his head again. "You realize it's both of us on the line here, right? Do you need a reminder of that?"

Neal shook his head. No reminder needed. "Peter, I really only did it because I thought they wouldn't notice…" Neal replied softly, staring at the floor. Peter's tight grip on his arm was making his bicep feel numb, but he was afraid to ask the man to let go or to mention the potential wrinkling of his suit. He thought about Diana and Jones back in the conference room. On multiple angles. One, could they hear this discussion? Probably not. He hoped not. And two, they'd probably _never_ had a conversation like this with Peter. Not in a million years.

"Yes, that's what you said. But how's that supposed to make me feel better?" Peter asked. He used his grip on him to shake him slightly. "You wanted to 'test it'? Was it worth it? Remember how I told you that you keep on doing things that would land other CI's back in jail? Well this is another one, Neal. You know what it's like to get a call that says after I left my CI alone he dismantled the security cameras in two rooms?"

"I didn't dismantle them…" Neal objected. "It's paper and –"

"And scotch tape. Yeah, I heard you. Do I need to be next to you at all times or else you're gonna do something stupid?"

"It wasn't – I… I don't know what to tell you," Neal said softly, honestly. He didn't. And he wanted Peter to let go, of him and the subject, so he was trying to choose his words carefully. "Why can't you treat me like them?" he asked, eyes directed to the conference room behind them.

"Like them?" Peter repeated. He let out an exasperated breath that was almost a combination of a surprised chuckle and a sigh. "Like Jones and Diana? Neal, they would _never do this._ " Peter shook his head. "If they did –" He cut himself off as he continued shaking his head. "I can't even… Neal, I can't even put myself into that scenario to answer you because it would never happen. Put yourself in my place," Peter persisted. "How would you feel to get the phone call I just got?"

"Mad," Neal admitted. "I know. I understand. I get it now that it looks suspicious."

"Think hard. From my side of things. Should I take you off this case? Is there too much temptation? I can easily have Jones or Di—"

"What? No!" Neal said in surprise, eyes widening. "No, Peter. No, you can't." He could, and Neal knew he could, and also knew telling the man that he _couldn't_ do something would usually just incense Peter to do it, so he immediately regretted his words. "Do anything else. I'm not tempted. There's nothing tempting. It's probably all fake anyway."

"Neal." Peter shook his head but didn't have much more to say. He released Neal's arm but remained close to him. "Listen to me. You know I want to trust you. I do, Neal. I really do. You make it really hard sometimes. Should I trust you?"

Neal nodded. "Yes." He so badly wanted Peter's trust. And to be on the case. He rubbed at his arm where he could still feel Peter's hand despite being free. "After I did it, I basically spent the whole time just going through the pieces to reorganize them." He now felt incredibly stupid. "I can show you tomorrow. This is a good case. I can… I can help a lot. Don't be mad."

Peter sighed and took a step back, rubbing a hand distractedly over his jaw. "I'm trying not to be. I… I really am, Neal." He frowned. "But you've got to tell me about things like this. When you get thoughts like this. You don't need to test it yourself. You need to call me."

"I'll try."

"And you swear there's no other surprises? You absolutely didn't do anything else when the cameras were obstructed?"

"Nothing," Neal affirmed. "I told you. Nothing else."

After a long pause, Peter nodded. "Okay. I believe you. I actually do, Neal. But don't prove me wrong. Don't make me regret this. If you're on this case, you gotta be just like any other one of my other agents. You can't go out 'testing' the rules and who's paying attention. Don't be stupid."

Neal narrowed his eyes and nodded firmly, staring at Peter's shoes. "I won't."

"Look at me."

Neal sighed and looked up. He met Peter's eyes, and suddenly felt slightly queasy. The man looked incredibly serious. But his tone wasn't angry anymore. Neal shuffled his footing briefly. "I won't," he repeated while maintaining the eye contact. No new stupid, he thought to himself. Withholding the information on Jason was probably stupid, but that was already done.

"Good." Peter paused. "We need to change the way you're wired, Neal. How do we do that?"

The question seemed rhetorical, and Neal didn't know the appropriate response anyway. So he didn't answer. He just frowned and stared at Peter's shoes again.

Peter then sighed and cursed briefly under his breath. "Okay. I'm going to call them back. I'll tell them you were asked to test their security measures."

Neal looked up in surprise. "Really? But, Peter, that's a—"

"If you're about to say 'a lie', then rethink your words," Peter interrupted, raising his hand to point a finger at him. The annoyance was back. "I'm trying to be patient with you, but another word, and I will lock you up right now."

Neal blinked and stared back at him.

"Don't think I won't. We have holding cells. And I will use them." Peter pointed to the conference room. "Go back. Talk to them. Discuss logistics. I will be back in five minutes."

Neal nodded, though he dreaded returning to the room with Jones and Diana. He knew they were going to look at him with inquiring minds on what had just been discussed outside the room. But he didn't argue. He didn't want Peter's mood to change. He wasn't sure if a holding cell was an empty threat like the other warnings or not. And he didn't know exactly how he expected Peter to respond to what he'd done since he never even had considered he would find out, but he now felt like the man was being surprisingly lenient.

As Peter took out his phone again and turned his back to Neal, Neal quickly headed back into the conference room as directed.

The two agents just stared at him as he returned just as he expected.

"What'd you do now?" Jones asked him with a look of condescension, a small smirk on his face as Neal took his seat at the conference room table again.

Neal smiled at him widely with teeth, holding his head high. "He just needed my opinion on something."

Neither of them looked like they believed him.

"Your opinion," Jones repeated.

"Yep," Neal responded briefly. He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms low over his belly. "My opinion."

"On?"

"If he wanted it to be public, he would have asked me in here," Neal responded simply. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up in time to see Peter returning to the room, pocketing his phone and looking slightly exasperated. He caught Neal's eye briefly as he took his seat at the table, but then looked over at his other agents.

Drumming his hands on the table briefly, Peter was ready to get back into business. His expression had quickly converted to one of attention to the case and nothing else. "Alright. Point of contact. Let's talk."

Neal was relieved to jump back into the case with relative ease. He knew Peter was going to be annoyed with him for a while, but appreciated he didn't bring that into the conference room. Until a second later when Diana spoke.

"Apparently Neal's idea is to get a bartending job," she said. "At the bar that one of these guys frequents."

"A bartending job…" Peter echoed slowly and stoically. He turned his head from Diana to his CI. "You're just full of surprises today, aren't you…"

Neal took a breath, reminding himself to stay poised. "Let me explain first before you make a judgment here, Peter. I have firm knowledge that Jason is at this particular bar almost _every_ night. It's the easiest way to make contact with him. And if I _work_ there, it's much more plausible why I would be there every night too. And that way he also knows where to find me once we connect." Re-connect, he thought wryly.

"Find you for what?" Peter persisted. "Why would he want to develop a connection with a bartender? And please don't say because of your charm. Trust me, you're not that charming right now."

Neal glanced at Diana who had a telling look on her face. That was exactly the criticism she was raising earlier after they were interrupted by Peter's phone call. He then turned back to Peter. "He'll want to connect and stay in touch. Because I'm going to be more valuable to him than that," Neal stated confidently.

"In what way?" Peter pressed.

"In an industrial way," Neal answered. "A lucrative one."

Peter still looked skeptical. "And you expect that to come up across a bar conversation while you're mixing him a drink."

"Yes," Neal responded affirmatively. And Jason didn't drink mixed drinks. Whiskey neat. But Neal didn't offer that.

"I would think this guy's a little more discreet than that," Jones said slowly.

Neal was tempted at that moment to break the news to them all that this wouldn't be a first time introduction for him and Jason. That Jason knew how valuable he could be and how much money he could make him.

But after the conversation he'd just had with Peter on his warehouse activities, Neal was afraid it would be the last straw with the man. He had just threatened taking him off the case. He definitely wouldn't understand why he had been withholding this information. The reality was that it was the perfect way into the lives of Messier and Jason. But Neal wasn't sure if Peter would see it that way. "You'd be surprised at what comes up over a drink," Neal responded patiently instead. "I've done this before."

"And what if it doesn't work?" Peter asked simply.

"It will," Neal replied confidently. He gave Peter a genuine look. "It will work." He paused. "I know these types of guys. And I know they're going to want to continue this operation of theirs, despite what we just took from them. I'd be willing to bet they probably have already _committed_ some of the work we have, and they're trying to figure out what to do about that. Quickly. Once I drop a couple of names, I'm in. Trust me."

Peter looked uncertain. He drummed his fingers again against the table as he studied Neal carefully.

 _Trust me_ , Neal repeated in his head silently. He was sure his previous conversation with Peter was still going through the man's head, and he was trying to wrap his head around whether or not Neal's idea would work. He'd probably lost some points with his handler now. And what about the list? This would definitely go on the list…

"So it's not a terrible concept," Peter admitted, to which Neal breathed a sigh of relief. "So I'm not shooting it down just yet." He leaned back slowly in his chair. "So you want to target Jason, not Messier?"

Neal nodded. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. "Yeah. It's the best way in. I've been going through all their files to figure out the best angle, and I need to do it that way. Jason's my point of contact."

Peter pressed his lips together, as though thinking. He cast his eyes towards Diana and Jones. "You guys have any alternative ideas?" When he was met with a combination of shrugs and a headshake, he turned his attention back to Neal. "You feel sure about this?"

Neal nodded. "Absolutely."

"And you're certain you can _get_ a job at the bar, or do you need FBI influence to do that?"

"Caffrey influence is enough," Neal said, shaking his head. "FBI isn't necessary." He saw all three of them roll their eyes and ignored their sentiment. "When can I start?"

"Tomorrow," Peter said slowly. "Give me the name and address of the bar."

Neal could see there was still hesitation in Peter's eyes. He wasn't sure if that would have been there if not for the phone call from the warehouse. "I will. You won't regret this, Peter."

"I better not."


	13. Chapter 13

Finished this chapter a little earlier than anticipated and decided to post it since posting chapter 13 on the 13th seemed fitting. Thanks again for the very helpful support. I can't thank you enough!

* * *

'

* * *

"Hon, you're distracted. What's wrong?"

Peter blinked and then looked up as the calm voice interrupted his reverie. Across the dining room table sat his wife, blue eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and concern. He looked down and across the home-cooked meal in front of them on the table and then shook his head gently. "Yeah… I'm sorry, El. I zoned out. Just a long day."

"That explains why you've picked up and put down the same piece of chicken for the last two minutes?" she teased gently, smiling softly. "I won't take it personally." She put down her own fork and clasped her hands in front of her on the table. "What is it? Something happen at work?"

Peter sighed and reached for the bottle of beer in front of him. He took a quick swig, now feeling guilty that his dinner was mostly untouched and criticized himself for letting his mind get too heavy while away from the office. He tried to distance work and home. It was important to him, his marriage. He was frustrated he wasn't able to do that tonight. "Yeah. It's work…." He paused. "It's more than work. It's Neal," he admitted. Damn, Neal.

She smiled wryly, as though she suspected that to be the case. "Is it his undercover role you're worried about?"

"Yes and no," Peter acknowledged. Truthfully, he was worried about the undercover role. He always worried when Neal's anklet was about to come off. But this time… "It's more…" he allowed slowly as he shook his head, struggling to express his thoughts adequately. He also didn't want to allow the topic of Neal to monopolize their dinner, though he knew with absolute certainty El didn't mind. When it came to Neal, she was equally invested. The Neal topic had taken over many nights' conversations.

"It's more what?" she pushed gently.

Peter sighed and put his own fork down. "He… He did something _so stupid_ today, El… And I wonder sometimes. I really wonder."

"Wonder what?" She frowned and then reached to pick up her glass of wine. "What did he do?"

He slowly explained the phone call he had gotten from the warehouse. Her expression changed into one of pure bafflement, mirroring how he had felt when he first received the update from the warehouse, and still continued to feel. "And when I confronted him on it… I don't know what to make of his answer. He was honest about doing it, and…" Peter took a breath and then another swig of beer. "And yeah… I really don't know what to make of it."

"Did he say _why_ he would do that?" she asked.

"He wanted to see if anyone would notice…" Peter responded, tone cynical. "He was testing the cameras. And honestly, as stupid and harebrained as that excuse is, I kind of believe it." He shook his head again. "It felt like he meant it. And I don't know if he's testing _me_ , or the system, or what is going on in his head. But it's like… I can't trust him, El. I want to, but… He's too goddamn impulsive. I give him an inch and he takes a goddamn mile almost every time."

"Is it illegal?" El asked, brow furrowed. "What he did?"

"Kind of," Peter admitted. He rubbed at his temple, at the impending headache, blankly. He caught his wife's expression and recounted his comments. "They're not going to pursue anything, El. I spoke to them." And lied, he thought disdainfully. He saw El's frown lessen at the confirmation that Neal wasn't in real trouble, legal anyway. "But it's like, one moment I think he and I are good, completely on the same page, like he's finally learning, and then, wham! Out of no where he does something stupid like this."

"You need to talk to him about it."

"I did. Kind of." Peter frowned. "He actually laughed when I first brought it up." He met El's eye, tilting his head slightly as he thought back on the moment. "He laughed. It's almost like he thought maybe I'd be impressed? At him doing something so cockeyed? Or he thought it was a joke? I mean, it definitely seemed like he didn't expect I'd be angry. Or that it was serious. He tried to turn it back on the quality of the security at the warehouse. Like he thought he was doing us a favor."

"Is he just checking how closely he's being watched?"

"I don't know," Peter admitted honestly. "I really don't. I'm not sure what he was thinking. Or why he can't think a few steps ahead. Does he really not think something like that would be noticed? At a federal building?"

"Then why don't you just ask him? He's about to go undercover. Why would he do something like that and risk getting himself caught or suspected of something more?"

"I asked him why he did it," Peter responded with a discouraged shrug, "and that's the answer I got… If they called Hughes and not me, do you know how that would've gone down?" He took a deep breath. "I mean, I don't even know what Hughes would _say_ to something like this. He'd be furious. It's embarrassing for the Agency. I've warned Neal his deal could be over if he pulls this kind of crap. I've told him over and over." He picked up his fork again and jabbed it into a piece of chicken on his plate. "Then he asks me why I don't treat him like Diana and Jones." He shook his head incredulously. "I can't even believe he asked me that."

"Honey, he just wants an equal playing field…" El said softly.

"Equal? He'll get one if he ever stops behaving like an impulsive idiot. What he puts me through on a daily basis, I would _never_ see from Diana or Jones in a million years. I actually thought it was a great idea to leave him at the warehouse on his own again today – to treat him like a real agent. And how wrong I was."

"Well, I agree what he did today… is a bit…" She hesitated. "It's just a bit crazy, honestly. I'm surprised he would do it."

"I'm not," Peter responded. "That's the worst thing. I just wish I'd predicted it. I pointed the cameras out to him our first time there." He paused. "I wonder if Mozzie put him up to it," he considered slowly. "But I asked why and he insisted he wasn't explicitly planning to do something else. And I think that's the truth. He usually doesn't lie to my face." He paused. "Well, not without some half-truth word manipulations that allow him to debate it with me if I do find out." He shook his head. "Sorry, Hon. I don't want this to be the topic of the evening…"

"You know I don't mind…"

"I do. He ruined my day; he doesn't need to ruin my evening. Our evening." He paused, thinking. "I spoke to him about it. And I think he understood. But now I'm wondering if I should actually punish him for it."

El shook her head gently. "The moment's over. You said you spoke to him. No one is pressing charges. So just go from there."

"Going from there is literally removing his anklet and letting him out on this case, El," Peter answered unhappily. "Between this and what he pulled at our stakeout the other day, I feel like I'm not giving him enough boundaries."

"You are. He's just testing them."

"Testing," Peter echoed with disdain for the repeat of the word. "And that's just…. Our natural course?" he persisted. "Because going into an undercover case like this, I usually have more support than that. I'm usually a little bit more confident that if I give an order, someone's going to obey it."

"You didn't _order_ him _not_ to obstruct the cameras," El teased. "He didn't disobey a direct order."

He gave her a mischievous smile in return. "You are sounding just like him, Hon. Caffrey defense 101. Leveraging every 'gray' area you can imagine, and manipulating black and white so they look like gray." He smirked, tone critical yet fond. "Though my number one rule, besides don't be stupid, is don't break the law. And he did."

"I'm not defending him. He was wrong. While it could have been much more serious, no damages were caused by his actions today," El reminded. "However unconventional he behaved. But you addressed it, so move on, and let him continue the case you were originally so excited about."

"Right," Peter agreed. "No damages." Other than garnering the skepticism of the staff at the warehouse and technically breaking the law. And again contributing to Peter's sure-to-develop ulcer.

"And like you said, you talked to him about it. He knows you were disappointed."

"I did. But maybe I should have yelled more. I don't like to yell at him at the office."

She gave a small smile. "I doubt he'll do it again."

"I actually bet he would given the chance." Peter shook his head with a sigh. "That's the problem. I might actually need to make a specific rule for this one. And then even more, what I can't help wonder is what the hell _else_ might he be testing?"

El sighed as well and then tried to steer the conversation to another angle. "Tell me more about the case, Hon. Any updates? What's he going to be doing?" She picked up her wine again.

"Bartending."

She nearly spit out her wine when she heard that response. "Pardon?" She frowned.

"I'll explain. Believe it or not, it makes sense." Peter smiled at his wife's expression as he lifted his fork again and picked up a string bean from his plate, looking up at his wife as he chewed. "Ah, in addition to his new career move, he's going to be doing something else you'll love, El. He got himself a bike." He paused and clarified, "A motorcycle."

El's demeanor changed from confused to surprised, lips parting briefly to respond but no words initially came out. Then she shook her head, frowning. "Why? What's that got to do with the case? You allowed that, Honey?"

"It has to do with his old alias," Peter answered, shrugging. "There's enough I _don't_ allow him to do, El. This is kind of crap is up to him. I can't make a rule on transportation preferences that are legal options."

"Yes, you can," she answered, shaking her head in disappointment. "You absolutely can, Peter. In fact, I've heard you tell him you can make any rule you want." She paused. "Besides, I thought one of your rules was about him not endangering himself."

"He knows how to ride. Let him get it out of his system." Peter stabbed another piece of chicken and raised his fork to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully. "If he gets enough of a rush from a bike and doesn't feel a need to compromise anymore surveillance systems, I'll take it. You always tell me I should redirect his energy, remember? Voila. Energy redirected."

"Will he at least wear a helmet?"

Peter chuckled as he fully turned his attention back to the food on his plate. "Hon, now you're talking crazy. I need to pick my battles with him. Not going there."

* * *

"You _still_ have your anklet?

"Yes. I'm not undercover yet," Neal mused in response to Mozzie's question that evening. Sitting at his kitchen table, he once again studied the pictures and cut-outs of text outlining the case. Tomorrow was going to be a critical day.

"Then when?"

Neal stared back at Mozzie at the persistence on the anklet and frowned. Was the man really surprised at the fact Neal was still tethered to the FBI? "Tomorrow."

"One day yet you're still wearing that?" Mozzie shook his head. "Geez. The Suit's need to know your whereabouts at all times is a little tiresome, Neal."

Neal shrugged. "They obviously don't trust me." He paused. "Plus once it's off they're equipping me with a watch that nearly does the same thing."

Mozzie frowned. "Really?"

"Really." Neal tried to distract himself with the photos on the table. He wondered if Jason would readily remember him. While trying to focus on that, he was still stirring from the last conversation with Peter about the warehouse. He wished he could explain that to Mozzie. Despite the fact that the rest of the undercover discussion subsequent to that had going surprisingly well, and Peter had essentially given him the green light to play the case his way, the previous conversation, or rather, lecture, still really bothered him. Especially the moment Peter questioned taking him off the case.

"I got your bike."

Now Neal smiled, redirecting his focus back to the present. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Mozzie affirmed with a nod. "Had a couple favors I pulled. So which painting do you want to trade for it?"

Neal gave Mozzie a perturbed look in response. "Moz, I can't." He shook his head. "I can't even joke about it."

"Oh come on…" Mozzie smirked. "Speaking of which…. Where's this infamous laptop? You said the Suit gave you clearance to take it home. I want to see the goods."

"I need to be careful," Neal said simply.

"Careful?" Mozzie echoed. "And if you're not? Besides, I don't know what that has to do with the laptop. That you're _authorized_ to bring home."

"It does," Neal responded. "Because once you see what's on the laptop, you're going to want to see it in person. And to see it in person—"

"I thought you were going to test the cameras."

"I did." Neal felt sick. He shook his head, flashing back momentarily to Peter's look of disappointment. He hated that look. He was pretty sure this latest infraction was going to make its way to Peter's mysterious list. Bold and underlined. Not to be left alone in the warehouse. "I did, and it's not going to work. Okay?"

Mozzie picked up on his friend's tone. He tilted his head as he asked. "Wait, so soon you're already saying that? What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it. But I can't do it, Moz."

Mozzie frowned. "What happened, Neal?"

"I need Peter to trust me," Neal said stiffly. "And he won't if… if we're scheming something on the side. He's going to find out."

"What did he do?"

Neal shot his friend a disbelieving look. "Peter?" he said. "He didn't do anything. I did. He knows I tested the cameras. And somehow after that, he still didn't tear me a new one, and I'm still on the case."

Mozzie continued to study his friend, looking a little skeptical himself. "You already checked them? How did you test them?"

"I covered them."

"All of them?"

"In the two main rooms," Neal confirmed, nodding.

"All of them at the same time?" Mozzie persisted. "No wonder they noticed." He paused, eyeing Neal with disbelief. "That was… impulsive. You do realize you have no impulse control, don't you? Why not just do one and then gradually try to –"

"I _know_ ," Neal cut him off. "I know. I was stupid. I really thought they wouldn't notice. Though it did seem… too easy."

"Well, too easy usually is too easy, Neal," Mozzie returned. "You know that. You're not a rookie. What'd the Suit say?"

"He wasn't happy. Look, I don't want to talk about it." Talking about it was recreating the feelings of conflict that Neal felt. "Where's the bike?" he asked. "Is it in my radius?"

Mozzie paused, hesitating slightly. "You want to see it now?"

Neal nodded, smiling. "Is that possible?"

"For you? Of course," Moz confirmed with a smile. "Let me make a quick call, and we can go."

* * *

"They do look really old, right? Do you agree?"

Peter frowned at the comment the next day, glancing over to notice Neal's expectant expression, as they stood in the warehouse that morning, side by side. After registering the comment, he then viewed the cameras in the room, which had, since their recent sabotage the previous day, been uncovered. He then sent a skeptical look back to his CI. He was surprised Neal was even bringing up this topic again with him, though quickly realized Neal was actually only raising it to defend his actions by reemphasizing the need for testing them. He refuted that immediately. "No, Neal. In fact, they look pretty standard issue."

"Really dusty though."

"I guess." Peter scrutinized the cameras once more and then looked at the distance between the floor and ceiling. "Hey… How'd you even get up there?"

Neal froze briefly and then shook his head dismissively. "You know, you were right. We shouldn't talk about this anymore. Never again."

Peter narrowed his eyes slightly at him, glancing up again at the impossibly high cameras in each corner of the room. "Never again is right." He turned his head back to Neal. "Because you'll never do it again," he said in a flat tone. "Because it's going on the list."

"The list?" Neal looked at him with sudden concern in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Our rules," Peter responded patiently. "We now have a new one. Though it baffles my mind that I even need to put it on there."

"Oh," Neal answered. He nodded and then shrugged. "Sure. That's fine. I won't do this again, Peter."

Peter eyed him suspiciously. "So quick to agree? Don't be so dismissive of what the rule means, Neal," he continued. "You know damn well I don't only mean that you shouldn't cover up the cameras at this ' _specific'_ warehouse again." As Neal caught his eye in surprise, Peter raised his eyebrows in return and smirked. "Oh, yeah. I know how your mind works. I mean all cameras, everywhere, anywhere. Just don't do it."

"But –"

"Uh-uhn." Peter shook his head. "Don't start."

"Fine..." Neal looked displeased but Peter also caught a somewhat roguish angle in the way he responded and the glint in his eye.

"And not just while you're specifically working with me either," Peter continued to clarify. "This isn't just your average on-the-clock rules. Consider yourself always on-the-clock with this one. Twenty-four seven."

"You act like I have plans to –"

"Not saying that." Peter shook his head. "Not saying that at all. I told you that I trust you, Neal. I'm just defining the rule."

"Fine. Unless it's for a case, or I really need to," Neal said with a challenge in his eye.

"In which case we'll have talked about it, right?" Peter returned without a pause, raising his eyebrows again. "And you'll have received an exception to said rule."

Neal looked skeptical.

"Verbally agree, Neal," Peter requested.

Neal frowned and then diverted his eyes to the rest of the room, moving to walk over to one of the groupings of art he had organized the day before. He crouched down in front of it with his back to Peter, reaching to turn one of the pieces that was slightly crooked against the wall. "I need to think about it."

Peter rolled his eyes, shaking his head. His CI never ceased to amaze him. Amaze and frustrate. "What's there to think about?"

"If I'm in a life or death situation, Peter, I don't want this hanging over me." Neal moved another piece of art, distracting himself, suddenly very curious in the frame.

"Somehow I doubt –"

"I said I'd think about it," Neal answered impatiently.

"Do you always think of loopholes, Neal? Is that the first thing you do when there's a new rule?"

Neal shot a fleeting look behind him at his handler, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. "Isn't that the way it works?"

"No. Actually no, Neal. Not at all." Peter was almost surprised at the question and how Neal's mind worked.

Neal studied another frame in front of him. "Well, either way." He shrugged. "You have your two hundred other rules, Peter. Pencil this in as pending."

"Pending," Peter echoed in a mutter. Pick your battles, he reminded himself, wanting to argue Neal's count of two hundred rules and stopping himself. "Ironic of me to say, but with all your loophole analysis I bet you'd make a good lawyer if you put your head into it, Neal."

"Moz says I'd be ineligible for the bar."

Peter frowned, caught off-guard that Neal might have ever talked about the topic of alternative and legitimate career choices with his odd friend. Though curious to know more details, and if Neal actually did have any passion for that sort of path, he decided to move on from the subject, given he had to make it back to the office sooner rather than later. So he shifted themes. "Alright, so show me what you started doing yesterday and what you've found out so far."

Neal smiled now and rose from his squatted position to full height, turning around to face Peter confidently. "Okay. I mostly got through the Baroques yesterday. It took a while honestly just to get everything sorted. I told you size was a stupid filing system. Let me show you what I think so far…."

Peter stood back then, letting Neal start to digress from the topic of rules into the artwork itself, moving into a soliloquy that was even-paced yet somehow a ramble, like there was so much he wanted to say but didn't know how long he would hold the audience. He showed Peter a few pieces specifically and started to point out certain details, particularly on one piece where he recognized some deeply hidden but signature tells of a forgery.

Peter let him go on for about eight minutes, appreciating the transformation of Neal from cagey a short while ago to poised and forthcoming, deeply passionate about what he had been asked to do. This was the Neal that Peter enjoyed watching. This was Neal applying his talents in a useful manner. Applying himself. Peter couldn't help but give a small smile.

Neal had just paused to catch his breath in his discussion of two nearly identical pieces and their key differences when Peter interjected, glancing at his watch.

"This is good, Neal," he said. "This is really good work." As he watched Neal smile at him at the praise, he continued. "See, it's a good thing we have you on this case, right?" He paused. "This is why we need you. Are you inputting all this into the computer?"

"I will," Neal said affirmatively. He was still beaming at the recognition of his efforts.

"Good," Peter praised again. "I can tell you were really productive yesterday. Hughes will be happy. Enough of these types of details and maybe we can pinpoint some of these forgers. I know it's a lot to go through."

"This is what I was doing," Neal explained. "When…" He glanced at the cameras. "You know."

"Yeah, I know," Peter said with a tight smile. "I get it." He cleared his throat. _I don't get it, but I do_ , he thought wryly. "Keep doing what you're doing until the afternoon. Come by the office by five and we'll get your anklet off. Hughes approved your plan. You still ready to go over to the bar tonight?"

Neal smiled at the mention of the anklet coming off. "Yeah, I'm ready. Do you want to take it off now?"

"No." As Neal's smile faltered slightly, Peter's phone started to ring and he dug it out of his pocket, answering swiftly. "Burke."

"Boss," Diana's voice came over the line. "Wanted to update you. Just got a call from our guys. The ones that've been watching Messier. Apparently he's on his way out of the city."

"To where?" Peter asked.

"Don't know yet. Just that he's in a car and they just hit the GW a few minutes ago."

"Okay thanks," Peter responded. "Good thing we're moving in tonight. Appreciate the update."

"No problem."

Peter ended the call and turned his attention back to Neal, who was looking at him quizzically but patiently. "Messier," Peter explained. "He's on his way out of the city."

Neal nodded slowly. "Does that change anything?"

"Nope. Just makes your role more important than ever." Peter glanced at his watch again. "I gotta go, Neal. Come over by five. And…" He glanced around the warehouse, not seeing any examples, but feeling the need to say it anyway. "And no more experimental shenanigans in here, alright? You think of something tempting, give me a call."

Neal nodded again. "Rule two hundred and two. No shenanigans," he said slyly.

"Does that mean you've accepted rule two hundred and one?"

Neal's nodding immediately turned into a negative headshake. "Still pending."

"Still pending," Peter echoed. He smirked at Neal slightly. "Fine. I'll see you by five."

"By five," Neal agreed.


	14. Chapter 14

The rest of the day flew by.

Neal found the experience in the warehouse enthralling. He had to keep track of time or would find himself so caught up in the work that he didn't realize hours had passed. The challenge he had was actually making notes of his findings. To do that, he had to force himself to stop analyzing the work to move over to the computer and enter the details. He hated typing.

Forcing himself to the computer was tedious. That felt like a job. It was like the reports Peter made him write-up for punishment. A few times he found himself distracted as well, suddenly typing his own thoughts on the interpretation of the piece, which was, while interesting, not exactly going to move the case along. So he would delete that, which was also hard to do, to focus on the facts of what would drive a next step in this investigation.

But caught deep in the analysis of a painting itself, he found it disparaging to have to remember to stop and document his findings.

If Peter was here, he could just _tell_ him and keep going.

He made a mental note to ask Peter if he could make a recording instead. He could vocalize his findings and maybe someone else could type it up.

Until then, he was stuck with the current process that day and continued to force himself to make detailed notes in the computer himself.

Just before five, he returned to the office as instructed. That's when it really felt like the case was officially kicking off. There was a briefing on the plans for that evening, including Hughes. It went surprisingly quickly as they recapped Neal's target and the approach, followed by the unceremonious removal of his anklet.

And then it was official. He was going undercover. No turning back.

However, later that evening, Neal felt slightly nervous before officially embracing his undercover routine.

He was so close, yet sitting on his new bike, a black Triumph that he was absolutely in love with and in debt to Mozzie for, he was deep in thought. He was only two blocks away from the East Village bar that would potentially become his new line of evening employment for the foreseeable future.

He always felt a little jittery before a gig like this. Usually it was a good feeling because it was mostly excitement and adrenaline and an urge to lose himself in another identity. It was also an opportunity to prove himself, what he was capable of, and what value he could contribute. It didn't come without risk, because there were always elements that were unknown, so there was always that subdued feeling of hesitation as well.

But tonight was different. It was all those usual feelings but also a trepidation that ran deeper.

He glanced down at the FBI model watch on his wrist. He knew he could turn it on and off by simply pressing the button on the side. It was currently off. He was supposed to turn it on when he arrived at the bar. He was debating whether to 'forget' to do that, though he'd been reminded multiple times, even by Hughes, to make sure he didn't. He knew that it also provided Peter and team his location without pressing anything. He assumed that they were back at the office likely watching precisely where he was and anticipating the audio.

If he didn't turn it on tonight, it would cover up the introduction with Jason. They wouldn't hear that it was a reconnection rather than a new meeting. He rationalized that they didn't need to record the introductions anyway. They needed the future conversations where illicit activity was mentioned in detail. Introductions weren't going to make any charges stick.

He wondered if the reaction he'd get to 'forgetting' to turn it on would be more manageable than the reaction when they realized he knew him.

The truth was, even post-introduction, there was a strong chance during the case that Jason, or he, would reference something from their previous activity together. That was kind of the whole point he was targeting Jason, after all. And he couldn't turn the damn watch off and on every time that happened. Well, he could try but…. No, it wasn't manageable.

So they were going to find out his secret no matter what.

He glanced down at his ankle. While it was hidden by his jeans, it felt bare without the usual weight of the anklet. He flexed his ankle gently, annoyed that the device had become such a normal feeling to have on his body that its absence was noticed. It felt good to be dressed more casually in a black t-shirt and jeans, and to be someone else for a little while, not Neal. But sans anklet gave him a mixed feeling.

He was also a bit nervous to see Jason again. The man was a little intimidating. While Neal had never actually had a problem with him, since he'd always delivered what they wanted and on time, he'd heard stories, and now also had the FBI's commentary on his suspected involvement in other activities as well. He thought he'd left on good terms with the man, but it was nearly a decade ago. They'd both been through a lot since their last meeting.

He was pretty sure Jason would recognize him right away. And that's what made him most uneasy. He was going to get a lot of questions. And he wasn't sure yet how to respond to them.

He didn't care much what Jones and Diana thought. It was Peter. Peter was going to ask why he didn't tell him beforehand. He was going to ask with that look. And Neal wasn't going to have a good answer.

Neal cursed softly under his breath, eyeing the bulk of the bike underneath him with a sigh. He imagined revving up the engine again and just hitting the road, never to look back, tossing the watch down into the sewer. Wind in his hair, cool night breeze surrounding him, real future ahead of him.

Real future? What was that? What did that even mean?

No. No, he couldn't do that. Besides, he'd probably be caught and then it would be back to prison. Peter always found him. And at that point, no second chances. Besides, wouldn't that have technically been a third or fourth chance?

He dismissed the idea while admiring the bike with a sigh.

Today had been so good too. Peter had smiled at him in the warehouse, told him he'd done a good job, and confirmed to him how important his undercover role was. Neal had felt proud. It was a much better conversation than most of those from the past couple days, where he was mostly barked at for not following rules.

The bar was just two blocks away. He needed to get over there soon. But he also knew he needed to try to make things right before he made any other movements on the case. Otherwise it'd be worse than it already was.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and pulled up his recent calls.

Peter. He had to call him.

His hand wavered, fingertips lingering just shy of the call button.

He took a deep breath, glancing down the street, at the cars and taxis passing by the streetlamp lit street. There wasn't much pedestrian traffic on this part of the block except for halfway down where there was a bar with patrons lingering outside to smoke.

He felt anxiety from his core to his fingertips. He told himself to shake it off. He'd done much worse. This was just a disclosure discrepancy. He hadn't _done_ anything.

He pressed call and lifted the phone to his ear.

Peter answered after just two rings. "Hey, Neal."

Neal hesitated. Peter's voice suddenly made him panic further. What the hell was he doing?

He pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment, and then considered disconnecting the call.

But he had to do this. It was the only way.

He forced himself to resume course, and put the phone back to his ear.

"Neal?" Peter was asking. "You there?"

"I'm here," Neal answered slowly, voice monotone.

"You're close to the bar."

"Yeah."

Peter paused. Neal could almost feel him frowning through the phone. "You okay?" Peter asked.

"I'm okay," Neal answered slowly. He glanced down the street again, the phone feeling heavy in his hands. He took a deep breath.

"We've got your tracking data up, Neal. You haven't moved in a while. Is there traffic?"

What a ludicrous question, Neal thought. "Peter, there's never traffic when you're on a bike."

"Of course," Peter answered sarcastically. "Okay. Then why are you sitting there?"

"Peter. I have to tell you something."

"I'm listening," Peter said, voice a little skeptical.

"Before I tell you, I need you to promise that you'll listen to me, and hear me out," Neal continued. "I need to tell you this now, but you can't get upset, because I need to be in that bar in the next fifteen minutes."

"What?" Peter paused. "What do you mean, Neal?" Peter sounded slightly exasperated. "Why would I get upset? Did you do something?"

"Promise me."

There was a sound of frustrated breath being exhaled. "You know I can't make that promise. We don't lie, remember? Now what is it?" Peter persisted.

Neal bit his lip, taking another deep breath though he found it wasn't helping to calm his nerves. "We don't lie," he agreed. "And that's why I'm telling you this now, because I didn't want you to find out and then ask me why I didn't tell you first."

"Tell me what, Neal?" Peter's tone was wary.

"You'd find this out in the next twenty minutes anyway," Neal continued. "But I'm telling you first." He ran his free hand distractedly over the shiny handlebars of the bike. "And in reality, if you think about it, this kind of gives us a real edge in this case. An edge in that I might not even _need_ this job after all."

"What does that mean? Spit it out, Caffrey," Peter responded, an edge to his tone. "What the hell are you getting at?"

Neal hesitated, given Peter's switch to his last name. Usually Peter only did that when he was really at the end of his rope. When Neal heard his name like that from Peter was when he knew to physically distance himself from the wrath that was ready to be unleashed. And Neal hadn't even told him yet. After the last few days, he was sure Peter was speculating what this could possibly be about. But Neal was too far in at this point to switch tactics, and Peter was going to find out about this anyway, one way or another. Better to find out from Neal offering the truth than indirectly. That Neal was certain of.

"Neal…" came Peter's voice came over the line after a moment passed with no response. Back to his first name, but tone warning. "Either tell me or hang up. And I'm thinking you better tell me."

"I know Jason," Neal admitted quickly. There. It was out. The truth. Released to the open.

There was a pause. The silence on the line cut through Neal and he shuddered. He wished he could see Peter's face. But maybe not. Maybe he didn't want to. Then Peter responded with a lowered voice, asking icily, "What did you just say?"

"I know him," Neal said. "He knows me. I used to work for him. It's been ten years, but—"

"What the hell, Neal –"

"No, I need to finish. Let me tell you. It was almost ten years ago." Neal forced the words out quickly, trying to prevent himself from being interrupted by that angry voice. He didn't have time for the reaction. He didn't want it. He just wanted to make sure Peter knew. "We did the same thing they're doing now. And I didn't know at first that I would know someone in this case, I promise I didn't, not when we first started. Except their MO obviously sounded extremely familiar, but hey - it's not like they're the only ones that do this. And I never met Messier. I never met him even once. And I only realized Jason was the same guy, even though his old name wasn't McDonald, only once I saw the pictures and –"

"Come back to the office. Now."

Neal hesitated, slightly startled by the tone of Peter's voice. "No," he objected, voice rising slightly. "No. I can't. Peter, we have to do this. It's perfect. I didn't want you finding out when he recognizes me, and I realized I should tell you before –"

"No, Neal. You should have told me the moment you knew. Not five minutes before you're going undercover. Now this doesn't happen. Come back to the office. You're done."

Done? What? Neal's thoughts turned frantic. "No," he insisted. His pulse raced. Peter's tone was livid. "This will _work_ , Peter." He wondered whether Peter finding out through Jason simply recognizing him would have been a better or worse approach. "I know that this will work."

"I just gave you a direct order."

"No! You have to listen."

"Neal, no, I don't. You listen to me... If you disobey me, I will come there. And I will physically get you. And when I get my hands on you—"

"No, Peter! Please. You have to understand," Neal continued, feeling slightly desperate. He knew telling Peter was the right thing but he now struggled to articulate himself to fight his case. "I can _do_ this. When you said that maybe I would know someone, and maybe I'd be able to make a connection, you were right. I can! This is the connection. You said this morning my role was more important than ever. If I can—"

"No. Dammit, Neal. You're not –"

"I am! I'm doing this, Peter," Neal interrupted, speaking conclusively and raising his voice. "And I meant what I said yesterday. You won't regret this. I'm doing this for you. Trust me."

With that, Neal disconnected the call. He then powered down his phone. Having completed that communication he needed, he swallowed back the rest of his trepidation, swung his leg over the bike, and started walking towards the bar. He took a deep breath and held his head high.

* * *

Back at the office, set up in the conference room with surveillance equipment ready to listen-in on the undercover event, Peter swore out loud. "Fuck!" he shouted as he quickly tried to dial out a call from his cell phone. When it didn't go through and simply went to voicemail, he tried desperately again. When it failed once more, he cursed again and without even thinking threw his phone across the room. It landed with a thud on the carpet about ten feet away.

Jones and Diana stared at him in silence, watching as Peter stalked across the room, pacing angrily, hands on his hips, face reddening. It was rare that Peter appeared so angry. He got angry, sure, but normally it was more of a quiet, stewing anger than anything exhibited to the team so viscerally.

"Boss?" Diana asked slowly, almost hesitantly. They'd overheard the one side of the conversation, but were left trying to figure out what message had been delivered to get their supervisor so worked up.

Peter turned and looked at his two agents, shaking his head in frustration as they stared back in confusion. "When Caffrey is back," he said slowly, tone menacing, "you two are going to need to make sure I don't actually beat him to death. Because this time I might."

"What happened?" Jones asked with a frown.

Peter couldn't hide his irritation. "So he knows Jason." He threw his hands up in exasperation. "He actually knows Jason."

"Wait, what? He _knows_ him?" Diana repeated, surprised. "We've literally had the guy's face on the wall for days. Why didn't he say anything?"

"Why would he?" Peter answered sardonically, voice laced with irritation. "Why the hell would he ever offer _that_ information?" He exhaled harshly. "God dammit."

" _How_ does he know him?" Jones asked, a little more patiently.

"He said he used to work for him," Peter responded stiffly. "Shit." He ran his hands over his face. "I knew something was off with him and this case. God dammit. I knew it. I should have pushed harder."

"So if he knows him…" Diana started. "Does he know Messier too?"

"He claims not to. And I don't know why he'd lie about that if he's telling me this."

"When did he work for him?"

Before they could say anything else, the surveillance equipment suddenly boomed out with noise. Neal had activated the microphone in his watch as instructed. Jones got up from his set to walk to the other end of the table, adjusting the volume on the equipment to a reasonable level, and they all stared at the equipment as the sound of 80s rock music, presumably from the bar, radiated over the speakers.

There was a lot of background noise, typical sounds of glasses clinking and scattered voices over the music.

"So what are you going to do?" Diana asked, looking over at her fuming boss, who was glaring intently at the equipment. "Are you going to let him make contact?"

"How can I not? I'm not going to make it there in time to prevent it," Peter responded disdainfully. "And he knows that." He clenched his fists together. "Dammit, Neal."

* * *

"Julie," Neal said simply, repeating the manager's name with a smile. She was a mid-thirties woman, sporting jet black short hair, a tight black tank top and even tighter jeans. A nose ring complemented the series of earrings shining in each lobe.

She smiled back. "Yeah, that's me."

"I'm Willy." Neal continued to smile as he shook her hand. "My friend told me you were looking to get someone else behind the bar. He said he spoke to you directly. Ethan? I'm looking for something at night to make some extra cash."

"Yeah, we spoke. We've been looking for some extra help most nights. We had a guy that left a few weeks ago." She made a face. "Moved to California."

"That's perfect," Neal responded. Coincidentally perfect. "I'd love to help any nights I could."

She nodded. "Ethan told me about your background. With your experience, Willy, it seems like a good match. One thing he didn't say – When can you start?"

"Uh, right now?" he smirked. "I can start whenever you need the help." He played a role of cool confidence, all the while a small worry playing in the back of his mind that Peter might actually carry through his threat and come tearing through the door to drag him out like a child. But he was pretty certain Peter would suppress that temptation to avoid screwing up the case. Plus it would take him at least thirty minutes to even get here if he did intend to do it.

He'd have to deal with him later. And Neal was dreading that interaction, but trying to push it behind a facade of Willy.

"That's great." She cocked her head to the side, smiling at him. "Good. Let's treat tonight as a trial run and then you and I can talk details. The regular crowd usually tends to arrive in the next hour or so." She paused. "Usually it's just me behind the bar… And I can take it, but it would be a huge help to have another set of hands around here so I can, you know, actually _run_ this place."

"Sounds good," Neal answered with a nod. Mozzie had done his part the day before, ironing out the details and laying in a more than robust word.

"I assume you know how to run the till."

"Of course," Neal affirmed, nodding confidently.

"Good."

It was almost too easy, Neal thought moments later when he made himself comfortable behind the bar. Then again, good help was hard to come by.

It wasn't too busy yet and most of the patrons already had drinks. Thirty minutes into the role, he was feeling natural at the part, and realized the cash tips were a nice supplement to the gig. The usual crowd here seemed to prefer a draft craft brew over a mixed cocktail, so the work itself was minimal so far. Which bothered him slightly, as he needed a distraction from his fear of Peter, and he wasn't getting that yet.

It was a standard place. Nothing fancy, nothing too dingy either. Lighting was subdued enough, and music was at a volume where you could chose to have or not have a conversation comfortably.

While he tried to focus on the role, the admission he'd just made to Peter weighed heavily in his mind. Jason wasn't here, at least yet, and Neal was starting to wonder if he'd opened up a bit prematurely. At some point, Peter was going to find out, and yes, it was probably better he told him directly, but even one more day of planning his words more thoughtfully could have been beneficial. But he couldn't have predicted how the night would go, and getting that truth off his chest and offering it to Peter was just the right thing.

He hadn't lied. He simply hadn't offered all the truth upfront.

No one had directly asked him if he knew any of the people being investigated.

Well, Peter had asked him if he knew Messier. So that was a direct request. But he'd answered truthfully. He didn't know that particular person.

So none of it was untrue.

He just wasn't sure Peter would see it that way.

The turned off phone in his pocket felt like a heavy weight.

But he also felt deep down that telling him had been the right thing to do. It had to count for something.

He knew he had to get his head in the game. He couldn't be lost in these thoughts and discussions that hadn't happened yet.

Pretty soon, it didn't matter what was on his mind as he was forced to be in the game.

Because thirty minutes later, Jason was at the bar.

Neal noticed him the moment he pushed through the doors at the entrance of the bar and took himself into the darkened space from the street. He tried not to stare at him directly as he took in the appearance of his old acquaintance.

Jason was tall. A good couple inches over six feet, and he was a bulky guy too. He worked out a lot, lifting weights. Neal remembered being in his home just one time and getting a glimpse at the gym he kept in a room most others would have converted to an office. He said it was his outlet for stress relief.

His hair was graying a lot more than it was a decade ago. His face had aged slightly, with fine lines around his eyes and forehead, but he wore the same dark expression and mysterious eyes.

Neal busied himself with a small washcloth, wiping off the top of the bar in front of him, erasing invisible stains. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jason approaching, and he felt a small rush.

"You're new," Jason said gruffly as he slowly took one of the empty barstools in front of Neal as his seat. There was an empty seat beside him, and then three younger patrons that Neal had just poured beer for several minutes ago. "Where's Jules?"

Neal looked up and met his eye, offering a friendly smile. Jason's voice was low, and rough, like a smoker's. Just like he remembered. "She's around," he offered with a casual shrug. "She needed an extra set of hands, and I needed an extra chance to make some dough."

Jason cocked his head to the side, studying Neal carefully. He rested his hands on the bar in front of him, interlacing his fingers. "I'll take a Talisker. Neat."

"Ten or eighteen?" Neal asked.

"Eighteen." Jason continued to look attentively at him. He paused just for a moment. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Neal turned his back briefly, reaching to grab the nearly two-decade-old scotch from the shelf. He was relieved to know Jason's drink preference hadn't changed. Maybe that meant other habits were still in place as well.

"I don't know," Neal said, forcing a thoughtful tone. He turned back and grabbed a glass tumbler from below the bar gracefully. "I get around a lot. Just got back to New York recently."

"Yeah…. I do know you…" Jason said slowly, watching Neal pour his drink. "Definitely I do."

"You know, now that you say it, you do look a bit familiar," Neal said, non-committedly. He was a little nervous as Jason worked through the recognition but tried not to show it. He pushed the drink across the bar to the man.

"I never forget a face," Jason said. "Especially with those eyes. You're… Bill, or Billy?" He took a small sip from the tumbler before returning the glass to the bar.

"Willy," Neal corrected with a small smile. "Good memory."

"I'm Jason. This was probably about ten years ago," Jason continued, frowning slightly. "You remember? You did some work for me…"

Neal forced a pensive look, brow furrowing as he gazed across the bar at the other man. Then after a few seconds passed, he allowed some recognition to cross his face. "Oh, yeah!" he said with a nod. "Absolutely. That was a long time ago."

"Probably feels that way to you," Jason said sarcastically. "You were real young then. You still look young."

Neal shrugged. "A lot has happened in ten years."

"I remember you were a big help then. Got us out of some tight times." Jason paused and picked up his drink again. "And better yet, you always kept your mouth shut. What've you been up to? You still in the game?"

"Uh, yeah… I mean, I've been doing whatever comes my way…" Neal said slowly. "A little of this… A little of that. Not always in New York." He hesitated but had to know. "Whatever happened?" he asked quizzically. "Back then?"

"What do you mean?" Jason frowned.

"Just…" Neal paused. On one hand he hesitated because he knew the microphone was on. He knew Peter and the team were listening. And he also hesitated because he didn't want to pry into Jason's thoughts too much just yet. But he had to know. "One day, it just kind of ended, right? And I went back over there. To the shop. Like a few months later, and you were gone."

"Yeah." Jason looked more thoughtful than bothered by the question. "All good things have to come to an end at some point. We were starting to get a little too much attention. So we left the city for a little while."

Neal nodded, wondering who it was that was giving them too much attention back then. And wondering if 'we' included Messier.

"What else are you up to these days?" Jason asked Neal more pointedly, redirecting the conversation.

"Just whatever can make me some cash," Neal answered with a shrug. He waved his hand to gesture at the bar. "Like this."

"This…. This is a waste of your time, kid," Jason said with a critical look. "I mean, I love Jules and her bar, and no offense, 'cause someone's gotta pour people like me a drink. But I know what you're capable of. Why would you bartend?"

"It's easy cash."

"There's other easy cash. You know that." Jason took a sip of the scotch and let out a deep breath. "Especially for you."

"Those jobs aren't always easy to come by," Neal said simply. "I do what I can, but at the end of the day, I just gotta pay the bills."

Jason nodded. "Yeah, I get it. I do." With a hand wrapped around his glass, he continued to look at Neal thoughtfully. "You in New York for good now?"

"Yeah." Neal nodded. "Time being anyway." He was about to add another comment when a whistle from the other end of the bar caught his attention. He looked over and saw another man looking to catch his eye to order a drink. He glanced back at Jason.

"Go do your job," Jason said dismissively, waving a hand. "But then let's talk. I might need some help. If you're still into that kind of stuff."

Neal smiled, nodded slightly. "I am."

"Good."


	15. Chapter 15

Thanks to those reading this. This is a very long chapter. I almost split it into two. Hope you enjoy. Really appreciate those who have shared comments with me.

* * *

The night had gone perfectly. Neal couldn't think of a better start to an undercover case. Getting the job at the bar itself had been a breeze. Jason had recognized him without any references needed. In fact, Neal had barely needed to even say anything. Not only that, but Jason also still seemed to hold Willy in high regard, of which Neal had hoped for but hadn't been certain. Then again, when he had worked for him years ago, he did everything he was supposed to: on time, without complaint, and stayed under the radar. He was trusted.

It was the perfect plan. This case was going to be another easy contribution to their completion record. He was sure of it.

So why did he feel so shitty?

He partially blamed fatigue. Last call in the city was 4am, but there were always patrons that lingered. The owner stayed too, so at least he wasn't left to his own devices to clear out and close the place. But Jason had left around midnight so the final part of the night was unrelated to the case. Neal didn't entirely mind the social opportunity. He turned off the mic in his watch at that point and actually enjoyed the interactions with the customers.

He was busy enough that he didn't get a chance to turn his phone back on until around two. Once he did, a few text messages from earlier came through. He ignored the ones from Mozzie and immediately opened the one from Peter, feeling a dull sense of dread intensify in the pit of his stomach.

'We need to talk,' the text stated.

Neal's heart skipped a beat when he read it. Four words. No voicemails. No other messages. He was sure there were missed calls, but he would never know how many since the phone had been turned off.

At least Peter had never fulfilled his threat to show up at the bar.

He reread those four words a few times before he returned the phone to his back pocket and focusing on finishing the evening. He couldn't be distracted if this was going to work. He couldn't appear nervous or like he had another agenda.

But he couldn't clear it from his mind and found himself reading the four words again when he left the bar around 4:30am.

As he walked the two blocks of the East Village back to where his bike was parked, he appreciated the fact the city was still awake. That was the beauty of New York. No matter what time it was, you could find somewhere in the city to hear voices, music, or any other sound even after last call. It was a good distraction. You could even try to convince yourself that you weren't alone.

He approached his bike with a swift gait, the night air a lot cooler now than when he was first out in the evening. He hadn't bothered with a jacket and realized now his ride home was going to be a bit chillier. As he got onto the bike, he hesitated again as he looked at the screen of his phone once again.

Rereading the text was not exactly reassuring. Text had no emotion, but he could already sense Peter's anger through the words.

Neal sighed and ran a hand through his hair, unsure what to do next. He felt somewhat wired but also knew that the feeling was going to wear off rapidly as his body realized the amount of hours he'd been awake. He also suddenly felt a slight emptiness now that the night was over. He felt a cold sensation of guilt and unease build as he thought it over… Especially the way he'd approached it in terms of the opportunistic disclosure of certain information. Peter was going to kill him.

So he sat on the bike quietly for a few minutes, deep in thought, feeling the darkness and night air around him. He was worried about Peter's reaction. About what it meant for the case.

Pushing dire thoughts aside, Neal finally made up his mind with resolve. He couldn't just sit here in the East Village thinking about it all night.

So he revved up the engine of the bike and drank in the crisp, cool night air as he raced down the block, enjoying the roar the engine made in the travel and the feeling of power in the metal beneath him. For a brief moment things felt all right.

He was halfway across the Williamsburg Bridge when he started to realize he hadn't even thought of his destination.

He wasn't sure what had possessed him to head towards Peter. It was partially just instinct because he wasn't going to be able to sleep anyway until he talked to the man. But he was also fearful. He was desperately hoping that Peter was happy with how the night had progressed. That maybe that would be the one saving grace to outweigh everything else, including their earlier conversation. The conversation that had ended with Neal abruptly disconnecting the call. Peter would be mad that he wasn't upfront about Jason, and that was to be expected, but the actual interaction with Jason couldn't have gone any better. And he couldn't deny that. He couldn't deny the value Neal could add to this case.

Suddenly Peter's words came back to him from the quick phone call earlier. In telling him to come back to the office, he'd used the phrase 'you're done.' Neal suddenly analyzed that statement as he navigated his way to the BQE. He knew Peter meant in that moment to not go through with the plan, but could the statement have meant a broader definition of 'done' as well?

Maybe this was the breaking point between them?

But it couldn't be. Because they needed him on this case, or else they had nothing. And Hughes had stressed the importance of this one.

It was just after five in the morning when he found himself outside the brownstone. The first time he rode by, he felt himself unable to stop once the familiar residence was in sight. He panicked and kept going, not even slowing down. He found himself a few blocks away before he was able to stop on the side of the street, under a lit lamppost, and realized he was breathing heavy, heart pounding in his chest.

He calmed himself slightly, as he pulled up the text from Peter once again. 'We need to talk'… he read again.

He stared at the four words as he slowly typed out a response.

He hit a few letters as a start and then deleted it with a sigh.

He paused, then he tapped a few other letters before stopping again. Deleted it once more.

Finally he just became exasperated.

'Hi,' he typed quickly and easily, feeling chilled in the cold night air and drowning in his conflicting thoughts. He pressed send.

Then he cursed, realizing what he'd done.

He wasn't exactly sure when Peter got up in the morning, but was pretty damn sure it wasn't five o'clock, even to take care of Satchmo before getting to the office.

And 'hi'? What the hell kind of response was that?

Why had he pressed send? He'd considered a million other things to say, and that's what he went with?

And why didn't cell phones have an, 'are you sure you want to send this, you idiot' feature?

Neal also suddenly realized that he had never talked to Peter about what time he was supposed to get to either the office or the warehouse while undercover. Even if he hadn't come here, he wouldn't have known where to be or when.

He personally didn't think it was reasonable to be expected at the office as early as usual if he was supposed to be working this job until an ungodly hour every morning. But now that he had pissed off his handler, expecting him to do both might be part of Peter's punishment scheme.

Neal suddenly felt exhausted. He swallowed as he stared at his stupid text response back to Peter.

Even worse, the texts above it. The most recent texting between the pair was the exchange when Neal had left the van during the stakeout on Messier.

He groaned. That would be a great reminder to Peter.

Not only that but he suddenly realized Peter actually had a digital trail of many of his past indiscretions. Scroll up the chain and there'd likely be a handful of 'where the hell are you' and 'pick up the phone now' text messages.

It crossed his mind that somehow erasing Peter's text history in the future wouldn't be a bad idea.

* * *

Peter's cell phone buzzed beside him on the nightstand in alarm of a text message, stirring the man out of his restless, shallow sleep into the lateness of the night or early morning. He blinked into the darkness of his bedroom, and then glanced over at the alarm clock, which showed it to be five-fifteen in the morning. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, a poor night's sleep and early awakening coursing fatigue through him. But he was naturally wired to always be up in case of any emergency or call to duty, and so he reached over tiredly for his cell.

He flipped open the phone, which had remained surprisingly unscathed despite its impromptu flight across the conference room the evening before, and stared at the text message, feeling a resurgence of anger flow through him as he read it.

"Hi," he read in a mutter under his breath, watching the phone blearily afterwards as though expecting a more thoughtful follow-up. But then nothing came. Just 'hi.'

Peter shook his head, snapping the phone shut and returning it roughly to the table with a thud while reminding himself not to abuse the small device too much. His phone hadn't done anything wrong. It shouldn't pay Neal's penalty.

'Hi'? he thought irritably. Is that the best you can do, Neal? When your ass is on the line?

El stirred slightly next to him. "You okay, hon?" she murmured. "What time is it?"

"Yeah," he answered softly, sheets rustling. "Sorry to wake you… Just after five."

"It's okay," she answered, turning on her side and smiling up at him in the faint light. "You tossed and turned all night."

"I know," he admitted. He rubbed a hand over his face, debating whether or not it was worth attempting another half hour of sleep or whether it was fruitless.

It had been a tumultuous last eight or nine hours. Peter felt exhausted, and tested, and conflicted.

"Has your desire to kill him passed?" she asked with a slight tease in her voice, knowing all too well what was the cause of her husband's insomnia.

"Let's just say I think it would be wise if he stayed out of reach for a while," Peter answered stiffly.

"Peter…" she said with a discouraging tone.

"Hon, what he did was out of line," Peter said ominously into the dark room. "I told you. He can't keep critical information from me on the case, especially when he's undercover. That's the exact definition of a liability. One way or another he's got to learn."

She adjusted her pillow as she sighed. "Like I said last night. He was probably just afraid to tell you."

"I don't care. He should be more afraid of not telling me and me finding out." He paused. "He just texted me by the way. That's what woke me up."

"Oh yeah?" She sounded pleasantly surprised and then turned skeptical. "At five o'clock in the morning? What'd he say?"

"It wasn't exactly Shakespeare. One word," Peter muttered. "Hi."

"Hi?" She laughed lightly. "That's cute."

"No, it isn't," Peter objected, casting his wife a skeptical look. "Far from it. It's pathetic and infuriating."

"Well, what are you going to do?"

"What do I want to do, or what should I do?" he answered bitterly. He shook his head, glancing again at the clock. "I feel myself becoming my father." He made a face at the thought and squeezed his eyes shut briefly. "What we should do… We should sleep. I'll deal with him at the office later."

"You'd be up thirty minutes from now anyway," she reminded slowly. "Are you really going to sleep, or are you going to continue stewing over there?"

He turned his head to her, smiling bleakly. "You know me too well."

"I do," she admitted with a laugh. "And I value my own sleep."

Peter suddenly felt guilty for bringing home drama from work once again. The minute he'd gotten home, at a late hour after obviously missing dinner with his wife, all he could do was rant about what Neal had done. Or rather, what he _hadn't_ done. El was patient, listening and offering a few words of support where needed, making him a well-needed Scotch and soda, then forcing him to stop pacing the living room and to finally sit down on the couch.

He reflected over the night glumly. His wife was incredibly patient. He owed El something in return. Dinner out or _something_. This was the creativity area he was lacking in.

"You're right. I guess I might as well get up," he agreed with a sigh after reconsidering that an attempt at more sleep was futile. "Satch will appreciate the extra time in the yard, I'm sure."

"Just don't leave the door open," El responded, tone warning. "It's getting colder at night and in the mornings now."

"Noted. So you're going to try to sleep in a bit more?"

"You know it."

He smirked. While he felt tired, he knew he'd just toss and turn, so he forced himself to sit up and rubbed at his face briefly. He leaned over and gently gave his wife a soft kiss, to which she murmured a tired appreciation, before he shifted his weight to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs off the bed to push himself to his feet. As he made his way to the bathroom with the intent of a shower to officially wake himself up, he knew he had to decide soon what to do with Neal.

While he went through the motions of his standard morning routine, his mind was working in overdrive trying to figure out what to do. He was reminded of his initial skepticism to even include Neal on the case. Maybe that gut instinct had been right. He should have trusted it, and avoided this entire maddening complication thrown in the mix. But on the other hand, while it infuriated him immensely, Neal having a connection was absolutely perfect. He knew Hughes would be thrilled, which gave Peter mixed feelings. It was the fact Neal hadn't shared this with them, at least not until the actual moment he had gone under cover, that was a huge problem. Any other agent would have told the case manager right away. That was what you did when you had relevant information on a case.

Peter reminded himself any other agent would likely _not_ have a connection like this.

He thought back to a couple days ago, after the Messier office incident, when they caught someone stopping by the building before fleeing. That morning, Peter had given ample opportunity for Neal to come clean. He'd asked him multiple times if he had anything else he needed to tell him, if he knew Messier, or if there was anything going on. And Neal refused to offer anything. Even while Peter had pushed, knowing something was off with him that morning and that there had to be a missing piece.

Peter sighed, realizing that Neal had specifically admitted over the phone that he only realized with certainty that he knew Jason after he saw the pictures they had. And that had happened _after_ that conversation.

But still, Peter rationalized, he'd had many chances between then and going under cover to mention it. They had talked one-on-one right after that.

Though in that conversation Neal was still reeling from being having been potentially suspected in the office incident.

But then the warehouse, the office, the car… There were so many chances. He had to know he was on thin ice with everything that had happened recently. Why would he hide this?

Yet maybe that was exactly why he hid it. Why he had hesitated. Peter had questioned taking him off the case, and had told him that. Neal wanted on the case and didn't want to risk anything eliminating that possibility. And when Neal wanted something…

He cursed to himself, conflicted and angry as he got dressed after his shower. Did Neal still not trust him? Neal should be coming to him with things like this openly. Why not? Between him testing things, like the warehouse security and simple human patience, and who knows what else, he was still hiding vital information. That was lying. They'd been through this.

Now Peter felt his hands were tied. This was good for the case, but bad for their personal progress. Peter wanted to take him off of the case, and wanted to show him that without exception he couldn't just make his own agenda and rules. But he knew Hughes would want to use this to their advantage. It worked well for the FBI. He also knew Neal still wanted on the case. And taking him off, tightening his radius, and threatening every consequence both conventional and not would likely not be enough to prevent him from trying to stay involved, short of physically locking him up. While aggravating for Peter to acknowledge it, the kid was the only angle they had.

Peter was mad. And he couldn't shake it.

Even as he made coffee downstairs, he realized he was acting on that emotion. When he got the ground beans from the cabinet, he realized he had shut the door much harder than usual. Same with putting it into the coffee maker, pouring the water into the machine, and taking out his coffee mug, in which he nearly chipped it on the counter. His movements were angry and forceful.

He realized he needed to calm down, or he would snap before the end of the day. He adjusted the collar of his plaid tie. It suddenly felt tight.

Even Satchmo was looking at him quizzically as he followed him around during the morning customary tasks.

"I know," Peter told the dog out loud. "Blame your friend Neal."

Satchmo cocked his head to the side, clearly not following.

Peter sighed. "You want to go outside?"

Satchmo immediately followed that, wagging his tail instantly.

"Alright, let's go," Peter agreed. He glanced briefly over the coffee maker, its process underway to make him a needed dose of caffeine, and then walked towards the back door, Satchmo eagerly following.

He thought nothing of unlocking the door with a turn of the deadbolt and swinging it open out of habit, until it only flew open halfway before hitting some sort of solid mass in its way.

The impact immediately elicited a noise of pain from behind it, an initial sharp yelp followed by a groan.

Peter knew that voice. Immediately he frowned and was filled with a sense of foreboding. Meanwhile, halfway open was fine for Satchmo, who darted out through the open space enthusiastically. Peter sighed and attempted to push the door open further again, more slowly. This time he was able to get it fully open, allowing into view his CI, sitting forward in an awkward position on the edge of Peter's back step, a scowl of pain on his face, glaring upwards towards Peter with ice blue eyes.

"Geez, Peter, that hurt," he complained, brow furrowed. He winced, adjusting his back posture. "Did you do that on purpose?"

"On purpose?" Peter echoed, still somewhat surprised of the unexpected presence on his back step. "No, Neal. Though I don't exactly regret it." He worked his jaw as he felt his temper boil. He resisted the urge to physically grab Neal. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm here because…" Neal frowned, sentence fading as he winced again, wrenching his arm backwards to rub at his back awkwardly. "Because. And that really hurt, Peter."

"Because what? That's not an answer. Why are you here?" Peter repeated. "At my house and in my backyard? At this hour?"

"It was too early." Neal looked up at his handler with a frown. "You said we should talk, and I got here, and I realized you probably weren't up yet so –"

"So you parked yourself on my back stoop?" Peter finished incredulously, shaking his head. His anger was comingled with confusion and frustration. "It's cold, Neal." He eyed the t-shirt and jeans on the other man skeptically. "You know you sent me a text. An asinine one at that."

"Yeah." Neal continued to rub at his back, grimacing. "I guess I fell asleep." He grunted. "Peter, I think you might have broken something."

"Quite sure you're exaggerating. And what do you mean, you fell asleep?" Peter glanced across the lawn at where Satchmo was contently sniffing at the hedges. He then looked back at his CI, feeling a conflicting set of emotions. He was increasingly angry, but also a bit caught off guard, and he was even a little bit sympathetic to the miserable look that Neal had on his face from being startled awake by a heavy wooden door slamming into him. Overall, he was not ready to deal with him at this hour. "Get up," he directed.

Neal gave him a skeptical look, as though sensing Peter's irritation. "I'm in my radius," he stated.

"Yeah, because I'm in your radius," Peter affirmed stiffly. "Though that's not relevant, since you're not on anklet right now anyway."

"I have this." Neal raised him arm to show off the watch.

"Yeah, you do. Get up."

"I don't think I can," Neal answered slowly, expression wary. "That really hurt, and –"

"If you play that angle, I'm going to make you sorry," Peter interrupted crossly. "You're fine other than your choice to come here. Get up."

Neal continued to look uncertain but slowly got to his feet, keeping a few feet between them. "Peter—"

"No, you don't get to just start talking. Get inside."

"But…" Neal looked hesitant. He glanced behind him at the yard. "Can we talk out here?"

"No. And before you start, I haven't had coffee yet," Peter said, unsure why he was sharing that fact with Neal.

"Is that a warning of some sort?" Neal responded with a frown, tilting his head to the side slightly. He rubbed at his back again, grimacing. "And geez, do you always open the door like that?"

"I do," Peter answered. "I don't normally expect anyone to be sleeping in front of it." He hooked his thumb towards the direction of the door behind him. "Inside, Neal."

"Maybe I should get my back checked first," Neal said slowly, looking at the door with apprehension, as though regretting being there. He glanced back the yard again.

At Neal's pained expression, Peter took an exasperated step outside towards him and took his arm, pulling him with force to turn him around slightly. Neal objected with a brief 'hey' of protest, flinching as Peter then tugged up his black t-shirt to reveal his back. He scrutinized the pale skin and the angry red mark that was now visible where the door had hit him. He pressed his fingers against the skin, provoking a soft hiss from Neal. "It's going to bruise, but you're fine," he told him without much sympathy, tugging the shirt back down slightly more gently as he realized that Neal was too skinny and his skin felt icy to the touch. But his sympathy was shortlived as he thought back again to the past evening. "Get inside," he said rigidly next, pushing him towards the door with a hand on the small of his back. "Go."

Neal's movement was reluctant, but he allowed himself to be pushed into the Burke household. Peter sent an additional look over to Satchmo, who seemed to be enjoying every scent in the yard and decided to leave him be, crossing into the house himself and shutting the door behind him.

"Neal, you have a lot of explaining to do," he said crossly, trying to sort his conflicted feelings through the anger he felt. Peter's surprise at Neal's presence was quickly wearing off.

"Do you want to see my bike?" Neal asked as he moved into the kitchen, strategically repositioning himself to put the marble covered island and wooden chairs between him and his handler. He rested his hands on the countertop, tapping his fingers on the hard surface somewhat anxiously.

"Your bike?" Peter echoed. His current mission was towards caffeine. Then addressing his CI in a formal, non-violent way. Which was going to be hard, despite El's coaching from the previous evening. He focused on the freshly brewed coffee and his mug. "No, Neal. And I need coffee before I deal with you. You know we have things to address other than your bike."

Neal warily watched Peter pour the coffee. "Yeah, I know, but before you say anything, Peter, I want to point out I told you what you needed to know before going undercover."

Peter let out an exasperated breath, shaking his head as he filled the mug with the dark liquid. He prepared himself for the Caffrey logic and approach to reason, which he was really lacking patience for that morning. "Neal. Telling me as you're walking into the assignment is _not_ telling me beforehand. It's the opposite. It's putting me between a rock and a hard place."

"But I told you. That's my point. You didn't find out."

"I don't know why you're trying to make that distinction, Neal," Peter responded impatiently. "I would have found out anyway. Just like you said. In fact, you probably only told me because you knew that." He felt his voice rising with each word, and he tried to remind himself to keep the volume to a level that wouldn't disturb El. "If there was even a remote chance that I _wouldn't_ find out about it, you probably wouldn't have even told me at all!"

Neal was silent. He turned his body slightly, shifting his weight to turn his point of view to examine the other side of the room. His tapping fingers now slid back and forth over the smooth surface of the counter.

"Answer me. Am I not right?" Peter demanded.

"Well, if you _weren't_ going to find out," Neal started, words coming slowly, "then it wouldn't have been relevant, and wouldn't have mattered, so I wouldn't've _needed_ to tell you."

Peter stared at him, in angry disbelief. He put down his mug and started to take a step to walk around the counter towards the younger man, but then watched as Neal quickly countered the movement himself, quickly straightening and moving, ensuring the island stayed between them in consistent circumference distance.

"Peter," Neal objected entreatingly, saying the name uneasily.

Peter glared. He didn't have the energy to chase him and redirected his energy, forcing himself to go back to his mug take a sip of his coffee instead. The liquid was hot and scalded his tongue, but he didn't care. "Listen to what you just said to me," he said icily after swallowing. _Teach_ , he reminded himself irritably, temper bubbling. _Don't just react._

"I did."

"Did you really? And you still meant what you said?"

Neal looked uncertain. "I…" He paused. "I do... Why would it matter if it's not relevant? There's millions of other things not relevant. I don't have to tell you everything."

"If that's what you think, then listen and listen good," Peter said sharply. "Anything related to the case," he continued furiously, "and I mean _anything_ at all, is goddamn relevant. You know anything about a suspect, then you better be speaking up. Doesn't matter the circumstances. You hear me, Neal? You tell me everything!" He paused. "What else is there?"

"What? From me? There's nothing else," Neal answered, looking surprised. "I swear."

"Except details," Peter said stiffly. "And if that's the other million so-called irrelevant things you're talking about, then you're gonna tell me each and every damn one. Today, on record, you are going to tell me every detail that you know about him. Everything, Neal. I want to know if you have a memory of him tying his shoes or buying a newspaper. Because I mean every little thing. It's _all_ relevant."

"It was a long time ago," Neal started hesitantly.

"And lucky for me I know you have a fantastic memory."

Neal's expression was ambivalent.

"And if I think you're leaving anything out," Peter persisted, "then I will lock you up until you remember it."

"But—"

"Don't start, Neal. I'm already tempted as it is to lock you up for a few days. Because I don't think you realize you're on borrowed time already. And every day you're giving me more and more reason to think you need a little confinement."

Neal shook his head. "No, I'll tell you everything. If I'm still on the case," Neal stated, as though looking for affirmation. His expression was unphased.

Peter blinked, surprised that Neal wasn't balking more at the lock-up threat. "What?"

"I'm still on the case." Neal paused. "Right?"

"Don't count on it."

"I have to be. I—"

"No. You don't have to be."

"But that's not fair," Neal objected, tone turning to a whine. "Peter, you can't take me off now. My situation is perfect. I have the exact connection you need. We can get this guy, and quickly. I know I didn't tell you right away but it's perfect. You have to know that. You said it yourself that my role is important. Messier's on the move. We need to move this quick. I'm –"

"Fair?" Peter echoed, cutting off the rambling argument. "Fair, Neal? You don't get to define fair." He shook his head. It pissed him off the Neal was right, as he had debated with himself that morning. It was a perfect set-up. Hughes would never let him take him off the case now. But he was dismissing Neal's case comments for that reason. He couldn't admit that. Couldn't allow this to just proceed without a single consequence. "You disobeyed a direct order."

Neal opened his mouth as though to protest, but then remained silent.

"And you're right, this _could have_ been an advantage. This _could have_ helped the case. Immensely. If you were forthcoming. If you followed rules."

"I didn't break any rules!" Neal objected adamantly, suddenly defensive. "All I did was wait to tell you something!" His blue eyes blazed intently. "And then I told you!"

Peter held back his returning desire to move around the counter and throttle him. Instead he continued to speak icily. "You lied. And you ignored a direct order. What are you not getting?"

"I didn't lie!" Neal protested.

"You did!" Peter snapped back, raising his voice again. "Think!" He smacked his palm against his counter, ignoring Neal's flinch at the sound. "Do you ever think? When you were in my office telling me about your alias, you told me that you might have an overlap somehow with these guys. And I asked you _what_ it was. I asked you specifically for an _example_. You didn't tell me. You just said there were many things I didn't know about. You think that's helpful, Neal? Huh? When in reality you _know_ one of the suspects?"

"I didn't know then for sure," Neal objected cautiously. "I hadn't seen his photo yet. I just had a feeling."

"I don't care that you were sure or not!" Peter yelled. "If you have _anything_ that might help the case, you tell me! Even it's a whim or intuition. That's part of the investigation! Don't ever use that as an excuse, Neal. Besides, we talked _right after_ you saw his photo and you still didn't tell me!"

"Because you were too busy suspecting me – "

"Oh no," Peter interjected, raising his hand to cut him off. "Don't you dare. Don't turn this on me. You had plenty of chances to tell me. I specifically asked why you had to use _that alias_. Why that one. And it would have been a simple answer, Neal! You had a reason – you just wouldn't tell me. I just don't get it. Why wouldn't you tell me?"

Neal glared back at him. He resisted the list of reasons on the tip of his tongue. He was afraid to get taken off the case, to have to talk about what he'd done, to be associated with this crime. Peter's angry posture towards him made him completely unable to express any of that. Instead he countered back with his own irritation. "What difference does it make?"

"It makes all the difference!"

"Would we have done anything differently?" Neal challenged, his own voice rising. "No! We would have exploited the connection I had, and we'd do the exact same thing we did! The whole thing's a moot point, Peter!"

"Maybe, or maybe not!" Peter retorted angrily. "You never gave us the opportunity to even consider what this extra information meant. If you knew stuff about him, and you probably know a lot more beyond the bomb you dropped five minutes before – "

"I didn't know enough! Not enough to help! I had to go undercover."

"He's suspected in more than art forgery, Neal. What else has he done. Is he dangerous?"

Neal caught himself off-guard by the question and hesitated. "I don't know," he admitted.

Peter cursed under his breath, shaking his head. "You should have told me. This and whatever else you're hiding. This is a matter of trust, Neal. You get it? You're putting me in a really tough position now."

"No, I'm not!" Neal objected. "There's no tough position. We continue as planned!"

"No, we don't, Neal." Peter shook his head. "You are becoming a liability. Just like I told you the other day. If I can't trust you, and if you're hiding things from me, then you're not like my other agents. I warned you. I—"

"Peter!" Neal protested. He was staring at Peter in disbelief, blue eyes intense. "No! I'm continuing as planned. What is there not to trust? I'm doing it all for the case. He wants to talk to me again tonight. You heard him! He said there might be something I can do for them. That's why you wanted! And I'm going to be there."

"You'll be where I tell you to be," Peter answered stiffly.

"No! You know I _have_ to be there," Neal opposed fervently. "This is the case, Peter. If you want to nail these guys – what else do you have? You have only me. I'm the only opportunity to get these guys. You don't have any other evidence. Messier's headed somewhere and you have no clue. The only link you have is me!"

Peter was furious. His blood was boiling Because Neal was right. And they both knew it. But he wasn't going to admit it just yet. He was incensed that Neal could hang this over him, so he remained adamantly opposed. "Wrong. There are other ways," he said simply. "And those will be discussed."

"No, Peter, and you know it. No –"

"Dammit, Neal, if you say 'no' to me one more time…" Peter warned.

"No!" Neal retorted back irritably, immediately challenging his handler. "How about that? No! Because you know I'm right!"

Peter fumed. He was about to respond when they were both interrupted by an equally worked up female presence.

"Hey!" El interjected with her own raised voice, tone sharp. They both turned towards the interruption. She stood ten feet away from the argument, wearing a bathrobe and a very unhappy expression, having come downstairs at the sound of raised voices, unnoticed by the two men until she made he own outburst. "Enough! It's not even six in the morning. Do you hear yourselves?"

"El…" Peter began, glancing between his wife and CI. She looked furious herself. "Listen…"

"I have been," she said briskly. "And I heard enough." She paused, seeking control of the situation. "Neal," she said emphatically, directing her attention to the youngest in the room. She said his name firmly but with a softness to the tone. "Neal, you sound upset."

"I am," Neal replied angrily, though the tone he directed to El was softer. "Peter's wrong. He can't take me off the case."

"Let's not worry about that just now." El shook her head. She studied him and sighed, looking him up and down. "Sweetie, you look and sound exhausted. What time did you go to sleep last night?"

Neal looked at her in bewilderment at the question. At being asked how he was. "What?" he initially responded in confusion, before grounding himself in the moment, shaking his head. He leaned down against the counter, resting his weight on his elbows. "Sorry, El." It was like he suddenly acknowledged who was addressing him, and he suddenly looked apologetic. He paused. "For coming here."

"I'm glad you came," she told him gently. "But what time did you go to sleep?"

"Well, I fell asleep back there for a little bit."

"What?" She followed his head nod towards the backyard, confused. She repeated the question differently. "Did you go to bed last night, Neal?"

"Bed? I …. No... I didn't." He ran a finger over the countertop as he had been earlier.

"That's what I thought," she said stiffly. She turned her focus to her husband. "Peter. He worked yesterday his day job, and you put him on undercover overnight until…. When, Neal?" She turned back to the CI briefly. "When did you finish?"

"Four-thirty," Neal confirmed.

"And then you came here, it seems?" she persisted. "Did you go home?"

Neal paused, processing the question. "…. Uh, no. There wasn't time. I wanted to talk."

She redirected her attention to her husband once again, raising her eyebrows. "Sounds like he's been awake for twenty four hours, Peter. Give or take. Does that sound like a good time to have this conversation?"

"El," Peter started. "There's never going to be a good time."

"Probably not." Her voice remained stiff. "But maybe it's a good time for him to sleep. Did you think of that?"

Peter sighed. He picked up his coffee mug to take another sip as he viewed his CI with irritation. He realized his wife was likely right, as Neal's expression clearly conveyed exhaustion. The kid looked a whole mix of emotions and tiredness. He wondered why he hadn't realized it before, but Neal look drained. But he was still mad at him, tired or not.

"You didn't go home?" Peter asked Neal with muted emotion.

"No," Neal responded, voice defensive. "Last call is four and you told me we had to talk."

Peter looked at him in frustration. "I didn't mean we had to talk right after you finished. I texted you hours before last call."

"I wasn't going to be able to sleep anyway," Neal answered with a shrug. "Before talking."

"Funny," El responded rigidly. "Neither was Peter." She paused briefly and sent her husband a scrutinizing look. "Peter, you didn't ask him if he slept? Look at him."

Peter studied the frustrated look on El's face and felt frustrated himself. Leave it to El to appreciate the human aspect of the situation. He realized at that moment she was right as he soaked in the obvious details. Neal was dressed in last night's attire, and while he had apparently briefly slept in the cold on his back step, he was nearing twenty-four hours of a full day of work on his feet. It was all over his face, posture, and tone.

Peter turned his attention back to Neal and then gave him a nod towards the other room.

"We're going upstairs," he said.

Neal looked nervously at Peter's direction. "Why?" he asked indecisively.

"Because you need to go upstairs," Peter responded. "Because I told you to." As he spoke he watched his wife moving to make herself her own cup of coffee and got the feeling he was going to be in El's doghouse at least for that day. And he blamed Neal for that too. He then thought back to his dog outside and moved towards that backdoor entrance. "Go, Neal," he directed. "Now."

"El," Neal said then, ignoring his handler and turning his direction to her as she took her first sip of coffee. "Do you want to see my bike?""

Peter rolled his eyes at the once again attempt at diverted conversation as he opened the backdoor. As predicted Satchmo quickly darted into the house, tail wagging.

"No, I don't, Neal," El responded rigidly. "Unless you can show me a helmet. You know it's unlawful not to have one in the city."

"I can show you _a_ helmet."

"Maybe that works with Peter, but I know exactly what you're implying."

"It doesn't work with me," Peter responded stiffly, forcefully pushing the back door closed and turning the deadbolt. He turned around. "Neal. Upstairs."

Neal looked more reluctant. "I think I need to go to the warehouse. Yesterday, I only got through—"

"That can wait. Up."

"I need to—"

"Neal," Elizabeth cut in, hoping to be the voice of reason. "Listen to him please."

Neal continued to look hesitant, but he started to move around the counter very slowly in a direction that could be deemed directionally towards the stairs.

El gave him an encouraging nod and gestured towards the other room. "Go upstairs, sweetheart. Peter will be up in a minute."

Neal expression was one of consternation, but he nodded and then moved towards exiting the room.

As soon as he was absent, El turned again on Peter. "Hon, where has he been since last call and now?"

"I don't know," Peter admitted. "I found him outside when letting out Satch. I –"

"Then enough with the arguing," she said, tone even and firm. "He needs sleep and to be warm. You can hold back your lectures and yelling until later today. He looks like he's been through the ringer. You're not going to get the response you want from him when he's exhausted. And you need to rethink his schedule. Did you ask him if he ate anything?"

"El, no. I didn't." Peter sighed, eyeing her with respectful frustration. It wasn't frustration aimed at her. He was tired too, but he refrained from telling El that. After all, he'd kept her up all night as well. "He's—"

"He's exhausted. I mean it. Put him to bed." She picked up her coffee mug and took another sip, eyeing Peter critically. "That's it. Do not touch him."

"El…."

"I mean it. I know that you're channeling your father right now. Do not. He's already worn out. You need to wait to talk to him until you're calm."

Peter sighed. "El…"

"Peter, I know what I'm talking about." She nodded her head towards the other room. "Go. Make sure he's actually going upstairs, please. And not already on his bike trailblazing back to Manhattan."

"I didn't hear the door. I have to say, Hon. You're pretty organized in your command at such an early hour," he said with a slight smirk, as always impressed his wife's control of a situation. "Even preceding a full cup of coffee."

"Oh, honey." El raised her eyebrows. "You have no idea."

He took another sip of his coffee, trying to calm himself and his patience. "I'm going upstairs."

"Good idea."

On his way upstairs, Peter found his CI halfway up the flight with a foreboding sense of hesitation radiating off of him. Better halfway up than outside, Peter figured, but it was still less than ideal.

"Let's go," Peter persisted, prodding the younger man into movement with a hand on his shoulder as they went up the last handful of stairs.

"What are you gonna do?" Neal asked, tone somewhat distressed as they reached the top landing of the second floor. "We didn't finish talking."

"We didn't," Peter acknowledged, steering his CI towards the guestroom that he and El affectionately referred to more commonly as Neal's room, though his more likely predisposition seemed to be falling asleep on their couch with an askew blanket draped over him.

"So that's not fair," Neal said tentatively as they entered the room.

"There's your take on 'fair' again," Peter muttered. "Whatever 'that' is supposed to imply." He pushed Neal gently in the direction of the bed. "Sit."

Neal dropped down onto the paisley comforter obediently. He cast his eyes up at Peter docilely. "Sitting," he confirmed. Then he tilted his head to the side, eyeing Peter cautiously. "I'm sorry by the way. For not telling you sooner. For not telling you right away."

"Now you're sorry?" Peter asked impatiently. "I don't think I heard that all day."

"I am. Very."

Peter regarded him with a sigh. Neal looked extremely tired. And sad. "I see it takes backing you into a corner to make you sorry. But El's right. You're spent. So I'm not going to bother wasting more breath on this conversation now. But we are not done."

"And I'm still on the case." Neal stated it like it was a reality, but it was clearly a question.

Peter ran a hand through his hair, breathing as evenly as he could. "Neal, stop with the case. We'll talk about it later. The only thing I'm sure of right now is that I want to smack you," Peter stated stiffly. "And you can thank my wife that I'm not doing that. Understand?"

Neal sulked and said nothing for a moment, eyes dropping to his lap. Then he started again, "Just tell me I'm still on the case, and I'll do whatever you want."

"It's not that easy," Peter continued, trying to keep his tone even, feeling the anger coming back again. "That I'll have to decide. This is a big deal, what you did."

"I have to be," Neal responded, almost a mumble. "It's the only way."

"So you say." Peter studied him, ready to rebuke and counter the statement but trying to be more thoughtful. Neal's tone was drifting more towards childish as his fatigue won over. He also didn't want to simply repeat the discussion from downstairs. El would kill them both. "How old were you, Neal?" Peter asked.

"When?" Neal responded, brow furrowing. He glanced upwards to Peter.

"When you first met Jason."

Neal looked contemplative for a moment. Then he shrugged. "I don't know. Minus ten years from now I guess. Give or take."

"Give or take what?"

Neal frowned further. "I don't know. Why?"

"Were you a minor? What exactly did you do for him?"

Neal squirmed slightly in his seat on the bed. He glanced towards the door, as his mind processed exit strategies. "I don't know. Why?"

Peter made a mental note to push further later. There was still more about this relationship he needed to deconstruct. But Neal was too tired now. Though maybe tired was the time to get some truth out of him….

Neal filled the gap in conversation. "I'd rather not say what I did. I can say what they did."

"What's the difference, Neal?" Peter sighed. He watched Neal grow more uncomfortable and fidgeting. He sighed, moving to sit beside him on the bed, shoulder to shoulder. At first Neal recoiled slightly as though nervous, but then remained in his place.

"I didn't do everything they did," Neal said firmly. "And I don't want that added to my record."

Peter slowly nodded, processing the statement. Was this why Neal hadn't told him? "Okay. Sure. It won't be, Neal." He paused. "So what _did_ you do? What was your job?"

Neal was silent.

Peter leaned his weight slightly against him. "Hey. You're getting a pass here. Open up. We just talked about you telling me everything. Remember? "

Neal hesitated again. Then he started with apprehension. "Peter, I…"

"Ignore statute, Neal. I know you mentioned that earlier in the week, but based on what I know, the combination of the years and if you were a minor, I can–"

"It's not just that," Neal blurted out. "I don't care about that." He shook his head, running his hands through his hair fretfully. "I mean, I _do_. I care. I…"

"Neal," Peter started. "What are you trying to say?"

Neal continued to rub his hands over his face, as though deep in thought. Peter suddenly felt grateful that El had steered him from going completely old-school on him. Yelling and threatening would only get them so far. Now Neal seemed to be in a mental crisis. There seemed to be a lot more at play.

"If there is more you're leaving out, Neal…" Peter started. "This is your chance."

Neal was silent.

"Is there?" Peter physically nudged him again, gently.

"Yes," Neal answered honestly.

Peter internally groaned at the brief response, his irritation soaring. He was anxious at what else there was and why Neal was hesitating. He tried to channel El, or anyone else, to try to keep himself grounded. The calm conversation was what was eliciting answers. He needed to keep the calm. Neal was slowly, yet infuriatingly, offering information. "Like what, Neal?"

More silence.

Peter was ready to shake it out of him. He clenched his hands tightly, taking a deep breath, trying to self-regulate his anger. Be constructive, he reminded himself. Otherwise, he's just going to close up on you and it'll be a game of emotions. And then he'll never tell you anything.

"I'm tired," Neal stated.

"Neal," Peter said calmly, or least as calmly as could muster. He imagined ignoring El, channeling what his father would do in this situation, and then backed himself off that cliff. Patience, Peter, he told himself. Gentle. "Neal, tell me what else there is. If you want to be on the case, I can't have more surprises."

"Thought you said I was off the case."

Peter attributed the insolent tone to the fatigue. "I'm not repeating that conversation. We will decide what to do," he said simply. "You gotta open up first."

"No, first I need you to explicitly say I'm on the case."

Peter closed his eyes briefly, not wishing this moment on his enemies. The leverage Neal was utilizing on him for the case, versus what he had done, was about to make Peter lose his cool.

"Neal…" he said slowly. "You're about one comment away from being sorry."

"And you're about one comment away from not having anything for this case," Neal shot back.

That was it, and Peter reacted as such. He had Neal by the collar of his shirt, shoved down against the mattress of the bed in seconds, pinned by an arm across his chest. "Neal. What did you just say to me?"

Neal just breathed in and out heavily not responding, a dead weight, laying flat on his back. He gazed at Peter with deep blue eyes as though fearful what would happen next.

Peter almost wished El would burst in and tell him what to do. Instead he glared down at the subdued CI under his weight and stated simply, "You don't give me ultimatums."

"I didn't mean to. I'm sorry," Neal offered immediately, suddenly without argument. "Peter. I am." He remained submissive on the bed, not struggling at all to free himself.

Then why do you keep mouthing off at me? Peter wondered helplessly. Why do I need to threaten or react to you to make you respond the way I want? Instead of engaging directly to these questions, Peter continued to glare at him. "What else is there?"

Neal now squirmed under him. "El said I should sleep."

She had. And Peter didn't put it past Neal to cry out to his wife to ascertain that exact scenario. And El would kill Peter if she knew he now had his CI pinned under his bigger frame, interrogating him. Even if it was Neal's own fault. So he tried to be tactical with his next words.

"You should sleep," he agreed. "And you will. But you know this case is critical. And if you have information…"

Neal nodded. "I want on the case, Peter."

Peter lifted the pressure of his arm off Neal slightly, but remained looming close enough to reenact the hold. "Being on the case is not because you want it," he said stiffly. "Understand? It's because we need this case." He paused. He was admitting they needed him. Dammit.

"So I'm on the case."

Peter paused, mind conflicted and patience thin. He couldn't do this song and dance much longer, and as much as he needed to make consequences and teach Neal to behave, he knew they needed the case and Hughes wouldn't give him too much choice in the matter. "I don't think I have a choice," he admitted, watching as a look of relief flashed over Neal's face. "And relish it." Peter sat up, fully releasing his arm from his CI. "Because it could be your last."

Neal made an uneasy face, remaining on his back while unrestrained. "I'm helping you. I'm going to get this case closed."

"Helping? Right… When it's disingenuous, we can beg to differ."

Neal looked frustrated at that description. "It's not. I want to help."

"Again, I beg to differ." Peter eyed him. "You're being nothing less than opportunistic."

"I'm not making –"

"Stop. It doesn't have to be financial," Peter continued. "If you think you can offer a value instead of getting punished, I know you would." He eyed him. "So you leveraging your opportunity in this case and holding it over me? Just know that I know."

Neal frowned at him, and remained silent, still lying flat on his back. He blinked tiredly and didn't comment back.

Peter sighed and then reached to pat a hand on Neal's too lean belly, covered by the cotton fabric of the t-shirt. "Listen. We are not done. But you do need sleep." He paused, glancing at his watch. "And to warm up." Neal still felt cold under the t-shirt. "Can I trust you to stay here and sleep? Then come by the office after noon?"

Neal nodded cautiously. "What do you mean we're not done?"

Peter kept his hand over his middle, trying to shed some of his heat into the thin frame. And the breathing up and down of Neal's diaphragm was somewhat calming. "What I mean is we have to continue talking about this, and what you tell me going forward. Like I said earlier, you owe me a full on-record account from ten years ago."

Neal nodded. His eyes were heavy-lidded now. "Okay. I guess."

"You're not out of the dog house, Neal," Peter reminded. "I'm going to record that conversation."

"But I'm on the case," Neal said.

Peter hesitated but then gave in and affirmed. "Yes. You are. Like I said, I have little choice."

"Okay," Neal said, taking a deep breath, which Peter felt in the rise and fall of the frame he held his hand over. "Thanks. I'm sorry."

You're not, Peter thought with a sigh. He did a once over of Neal's position, lying back tiredly, while his legs remained hanging off the bed from a sitting position. Peter took a composed breath, feeling completely spent himself and exasperated. He removed his hand from Neal and pushed himself up from the bed.

"Take your shoes off and go to sleep," Peter told him, glancing at his watch. He walked over to close the blinds on the window as he continued talking. "I'll see you this afternoon. And if you do _anything_ between now and then, I'm taking you back to prison."

At no response, Peter turned himself around to view his CI.

Neal's eyes were now closed, mouth slightly parted, chest moving up and down in even motion. He was fast asleep.

Peter groaned and rolled his eyes, making his way back towards the bed with intent to remove Neal's shoes himself. "You're a piece of work," he muttered, as he tugged the laces loose.

His mind then shifted to the rest of the day. To what he was going to tell Hughes.


	16. Chapter 16

A huge thank you to those reading this story and especially those leaving feedback. I really appreciate it. I apologize this chapter came a couple days later than I originally planned. Apologies for any typos - I probably need another proofread but didn't want to delay the chapter further.

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Later that day, Peter drummed his pen against his desk and the stack of paperwork in front of him. At only one in the afternoon, it had already been a long, exhausting day.

From the tiredness resulting from a poor night's sleep, to the unexpected morning at his home playing some sort of hybrid role of boss or parent to his CI, to the debrief at the office to get Hughes up to speed, to updates from Diana that Messier had disappeared somewhere upstate… Peter already felt like he'd worked a full day.

Yet he was only halfway through. If that.

After hearing about the previous evening and the relationship that Neal had secured, including solid next steps, Hughes was thrilled. He barely even questioned the details of Neal's connection. He only looked forward to what it meant for the case and when they could get more information. He wanted to know the next meeting, the details, and the timeline in which they thought they could get everything closed down, and anything else that Neal might need. He looked optimistic and proud. Peter had responded to his supervisor factually, trying to exclude the disdain from his tone that would give away his fury over the whole situation.

Of course he was happy that his boss was happy… But the details of the case bothered him.

He would however admit that Hughes' reaction was on one hand partially a relief, because he didn't have to protect Neal from any skepticism regarding the late delivered details on the connection, which had honestly been a worry in the back of Peter's mind. But it was also frustrating. Because it garnered a praise of Neal that was the result of him acting on his own agenda. Neal had been right about leveraging his past experience, but of his actual actions, or at least the chronology of them, not so much. But Peter couldn't explain that to Hughes.

It was too hard to explain that while the CI offered them a service, and in this instance it appeared Neal was delivering on that, there was also another piece that had failed miserably. Peter was also trying to train and teach him. Neal acting on his own this time might have played well in the result, but that wouldn't always be the case.

Neal was a headache. Peter struggled with his approach to him and his teaching methods and felt increasing anxiety and anger the entire day. He'd never felt so many emotions working with a CI before in his career. What was it about Neal?

He thought back to Neal that morning, a more raw version of his usually polished self. A version that elicited multiple mixed feelings from Peter, whether it be anger, confusion, more anger, or a sudden sense of protectiveness. On one hand, Peter wanted nothing more than to just react to his actions and ultimatums and to shake him, but then he also just wanted more information and to better understand Neal's past.

Jason knew Neal. And Peter didn't know to what extent that went. What did it mean and how much time had they spent together? What had Neal done for him? Neal seemed so resistant to share that aspect of the relationship. And this guy, Jason… There was more than art forgery here. And that made Peter uneasy.

Willy…. What did Willy do?

He was thinking exactly about that when said person meandered his way into his office.

He silently watched Neal enter without knocking, showered and dressed in a suit, transformed back into his usual suave, confident self, in contrast to the childish version of himself on the verge of exhaustion earlier that morning. This version of Neal strolled in confidently and dropped into the chair in front of Peter's desk without hesitation. Peter exchanged eye contact with him and said nothing.

"Hi," Neal spoke first.

"Hi…" Peter echoed skeptically. "Is this a verbal dictation of your early morning text message?" He raised his eyebrows.

"That wasn't intentional," Neal answered, pink rising in his cheeks slightly as his eye contact flickered for a moment. He then steadied himself and studied Peter carefully. "It was too early. Are you…" he trailed off, for a moment appearing uncertain again, but then as usual he seemed to quickly redirect his emotions, face masked once more. "I sent it too soon," he repeated. "And then realized it was too early."

"It was, Neal. Any other obvious observations?" As he eyed the younger man, he started to observe what he was afraid of. That this version of Neal Caffrey, armed with sleep and probably a lot of self-reflection, but hopefully no pep talks from Mozzie, had rebuilt some walls versus the earlier version of himself that had somewhat vulnerably agreed to open up to Peter. He prepared himself for a less than willing line of questioning and suddenly regretted not pushing him for more when he'd had him literally and figuratively cornered that morning.

Neal smirked. "I have lots of observations," he said broadly. "Pick a subject." He paused when Peter just stared back at him with an unimpressed expression. Neal then shifted his weight uncomfortably in his chair.

"I'm not in the mood for jokes, Neal," Peter told him.

"Well, then, what do you want to do next…?" Neal asked, looking slightly wary. "Because, look, you're obviously still mad, and I was going to save us both the time and just go to the warehouse, but... But you said to come here."

"I did. You were right to come here. And you're right that I'm mad." Peter felt his earlier anger returning in full force as he said it out loud. He could feel it resonating throughout him as he stared across the desk at his errant charge. Neal was starting to look nervous as well, and restless. Peter reminded himself of the walls and his need to be calm if he was going to get any information. So he changed tactics instead. "Did you sleep?"

Neal frowned, a little surprised at the question, which reflected a considerate side of Peter incongruent with the previous admission of anger seconds earlier. "Yeah. And I went home." Neal shifted his posture again. "I like my shower better than yours."

"Do you?" Peter mused, feeling slightly irritated again. Of course June's shower was superior to his. And of course Neal would be awarded that luxury. Neal could have just said he needed a change of clothes. But no… He tried to dismiss this as his wife's voice rang in his ears from earlier to be patient. "Did you eat?"

Neal's frown deepened. "No."

"Did El—"

"She wasn't home when I woke up."

It was Peter's turn to frown. He knew El was home part of the morning. Neal must have slept in past that. "How did you lock the—"

Neal smiled. "Oh, I have a key," he responded quickly. "It's locked." His smile faltered at Peter's expression after the statement. "I mean, I…" He made a face, almost a wince, as he trailed off briefly. He studied the window behind Peter's head. "There's no other way to say that, actually. I have a key."

Peter's expression was one of annoyance and disbelief. Annoyed at the, while innocent, incessant interruption of his questions, and second, at the knowledge of Neal suddenly possessing a key to his personal residence, he tried to keep his cool. He didn't miss the fact as well that Neal had just tried to immediately manipulate the fact he had a key somehow, though he had clearly failed. _No other way to say it_ … Peter echoed in his head. _That's Goddamn right, Neal…_

"I think I shouldn't have told you that," Neal continued to speak. "Right?" He paused. "But then you'd think your door was unlocked." He frowned. "No, what I shouldn't have told you was that El wasn't home. Then you wouldn't have asked about the door, and –"

"Stop." Peter couldn't stand the spoken diatribe of Neal's restless thought process. The exact thought process he'd been attempting futilely to untrain Neal of. "Just stop." He already knew how Neal's mind worked. It searched desperately for all sorts of excuses to get out of trouble.

Neal fell silent. He folded his hands in his lap.

Peter took a deep breath, daring himself to remain patient. Forcing himself. He waved a hand at Neal dismissively. "Forget it, Neal… You have a key. Fine." Neal being able to enter his home when needed was the least of his concerns at the moment. It made him wonder why Neal hadn't simply entered that morning versus sitting out in the cold morning air outside. "You want to eat?"

Neal's expression turned from conflicted to a little surprised and then hopeful. "Why? You want to take me to lunch?"

"No…" Peter said slowly, tone dry as he glanced at his watch. "I really don't. What I want is to have our talk and then after that I want you at the warehouse. But I also don't want to hear about it when you're twenty-four hours without food." While he said this, he was thinking about how suggesting Neal go to lunch was more of a reward than what he really should be doing after the events of the last day. At the same time, El's ire over his previous day's itinerary was valid. The full day couldn't be work and only work. And Neal had felt thin enough when he'd physically restrained him earlier so he probably shouldn't miss a whole day of meals.

"Talk?" Neal echoed, expression and tone wary. "We already talked. And if it's lunch with the intent to talk more, I'll pass."

"Passing isn't an option," Peter answered. "And I told you this morning we weren't done. You're committed to a on-record statement about everything you did that involves these guys ten years ago, Neal."

Neal made a face. "But –"

"But I don't care," Peter answered dryly. "You already agreed to it, and I don't really give a damn if you were overtired when you did. I'm getting my statement." He paused. "And we also need to talk about your schedule."

"My schedule?" Neal echoed in question, raising his eyebrows skeptically. "What about it?"

"Well, I think you'd agree yesterday wasn't ideal." Peter exhaled impatiently, watching as Neal became more edgy in his posture, leg bouncing. "I don't want a repeat of this morning."

"I shouldn't have come over you mean," Neal stated flatly. "That was stupid."

"No… I don't mean that…" Peter studied him as he shook his head, a little dumbfounded by the comment and the look on Neal's face. "Though I'd prefer you not come over before six in the morning as a routine, Neal." He paused as he watched emotion flicker over the other man's face. He softened momentarily. "But if you need to come over, you always can come over. You know that. Hell, we call the guest room yours now."

"I didn't _need_ to," Neal objected, somewhat defensively. "You said we had to _talk_."

"Right," Peter answered, not wanting to get into the details of that argument again. "And trust me. We are going to talk."

"And by the way, I only have a key because where you hide it in the backyard is pretty obvious," Neal said suddenly, switching back to the earlier subject, as though it was the lesser of two evils. "Especially for an FBI agent."

Peter paused, observing the younger man without response. Neal looked a bit cocky as he said it, which made Peter think he was rationalizing the right he had to the key based on the merit of its hiding place. Then he frowned and shook his head. "What are you talking about, Neal? How –"

"Mozzie told me where it was _months_ ago."

"Oh, did he?" Peter's eyes narrowed, mentally noting another reason why Mozzie was on his shitlist. What had the little goon been doing in his backyard? While he could trust him to help protect Neal and look out for his well-being, his influence on his general behavior was questionable.

"I put that key back," Neal stated simply.

Peter continued to regard him dubiously. "I'm sure you did." He paused and scrutinized him more carefully. He caught something in Neal's eyes, a certain glint, and decided to press, though the topic was far from what he'd intended to cover that afternoon. The use of the word 'that' key begged a follow-up question. "And what do you mean 'that' key? Want to tell me what you're leaving out?"

"About what? I put it back. I'm not leaving out anything. I…." Neal cut himself off from the half-truth as he caught Peter's eye and the stern look that flashed over his handler's face. "Fine," he said curtly. He gave Peter a bold stare. "I made a copy of the key before I put it back. Is that what you're looking for?"

Peter sighed. His heart pounded in his chest like an angry drum. "See the magnitude of leaving out certain details, Neal?"

"Not really," Neal answered impatiently, tone a bit petulant.

"No?" Peter challenged.

"Does it matter if I have a key? I don't want to have this discussion again," Neal answered stiffly. "About leaving stuff out."

"Because you still don't get it? It's exactly what we need to talk about. This and you trying to give me ultimatums. If you ever give me an ultimatum again—"

"I get it." Neal shook his head. "Your key – fine. I took it. Briefly. I put it back. But leaving out something from that?" He made a face. "I had it for two days. Months ago. Is everything I did during those two days relevant to the fact I took the key?" He shrugged dismissively. "I highly doubt it, Peter. But from your point of view? Yeah, _all_ relevant. You want to know how many coffees I had when I had your key?"

Peter listened to him, and pressed his lips together briefly in irritation. Then he said, "You're pissing me off, you know that?"

"Because of the key?" Neal answered. He frowned and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest in exasperation. "That was months ago. I figured you already knew."

"I don't actually care about the key, Neal." He should care, but he didn't in the scheme of things. In terms of materiality of issues at hand, the key was the least of his concerns. "Your logic is what's pissing me off," Peter continued, letting his frustration form his next words. His voice grew stiffer. "Because it's _not_ logic. You distort logic. It's manipulation of facts. It's the way you exaggerate – " He stopped speaking abruptly as he watched his CI push his chair back and stand, turning towards the door unexpectedly. "Neal," he snapped. "Sit down."

Neal froze in his movement, but he kept his back turned.

"Neal," Peter repeated, lowering his voice slightly, warningly. He got to his own feet, and started around the desk. "Sit. We're not done. We're far from done."

Neal turned slightly, expression frustrated. As he took in Peter's rise from his own chair, he took a step backwards. "I'm not any of those things," he told Peter.

"We aren't done talking," Peter told him firmly. "You don't get to decide that. You're on my clock."

"I'm _not_ distorting. I'm _not_ manipulating. I'm _not_ exaggerating. I'm—"

"Enough, Neal," Peter interjected. "Sit." He gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

"I'm not any of those things, Peter," Neal repeated.

Peter observed him long-sufferingly. "You're not," he agreed. "Your words are. Now sit down."

"My words."

"Your words," Peter confirmed. "And speaking of words," he said, taking a slow step towards Neal, "you better listen to mine. I tell you to do something, you do it." He paused. "You want on this case? Start listening."

Neal's next step back had him in the doorframe. He glanced behind him at the bullpen in the distance. "Peter, maybe I should go to the warehouse."

"I told you to sit," Peter said tightly. Why couldn't he have a CI that listened to even simple instructions? He took another step towards Neal, watching him glance behind himself. Peter shook his head slowly. "You step out of this office right now, and I will embarrass you in front of everyone and bring you right back here."

Neal turned his head back to Peter and narrowed his eyes, clearly loathing his current situation.

"You want to test me?" Peter answered. "Try it."

Neal looked conflicted. But he stayed with his feet planted on the floor. He was about to make a comment back when a hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder from behind. He jumped slightly at the contact and turned to take in the tall, lean frame of Hughes.

Knowing the identity of the hand didn't actually make Neal feel better and he stiffened, suddenly realizing he was close to being sandwiched between the biggest authority figure in his life, who was clearly not happy at all with him, and that person's boss. He swallowed.

"Nice job, Caffrey," Hughes praised, clapping Neal on the shoulder once more. "I have to admit… Getting a connection so soon into the case… I wasn't expecting that slam dunk but I'll take it. Exactly what we need around here." He patted him again, a small thin smile on his face. "I have a good feeling about this one. Thanks to you."

"Yes, sir," Neal answered softly.

With that Hughes nodded to Peter, who remained silent, and walked away in the direction of his office.

Ignoring his handler's internal rage, which was resonating off of him in waves, Neal suddenly smirked. "Hear that, Peter? I'm exactly what's needed around here. Why don't you just drop it?"

With that last straw of cheekiness, Peter snapped. He closed the gap between them and grabbed his CI by the upper arm, moving them both swiftly out of his office.

"Hey – what?" Neal objected, resisting. He glanced desperately in the direction that Hughes had exited and saw the man's office door already closed completely shut. So that wasn't going to be an avenue of diversion. So he tried to mediate with his boss. "Peter, hey. If you listen –"

"No, I'm done with listening," Peter responded sharply, forcefully pulling Neal towards the stairs. "I don't have time any more to reason with you."

Neal countered the movement by pulling back, which slowed them down but was somewhat futile given he had no match for Peter's strength. He felt a few eyes on them from the bullpen and yanked his arm back with more force, finally stopping them. "Peter," he pleaded. "Please."

Peter remained stopped, but kept a hold of his arm. He stared at him, narrowing his eyes, and then glanced down at the bullpen.

"Don't do this here," Neal entreated, keeping his voice low. He tugged at his arm again to loosen the grip but Peter remained firm. Peter was angry. He glanced again at Hughes office, noting the irony. Normally Peter protected him from Hughes and created a buffer. Not the other way around.

"Listen. I won't drag you if you come with me," Peter told him, voice flat.

"With you where?" Neal asked. "Why?" His mind suddenly raced. What was supposed to happen now? A minute ago Peter had wanted him to sit in his office, and now where was he taking him? He knew he hadn't listened, not completely, to Peter's directions, and that exacerbated the entire scenario from the last few days, but now Neal felt afraid.

"We're going upstairs," Peter told him. "Where it's quieter."

Neal paled. "Why?" He tugged at his arm again and added, "I thought you wanted to take me to lunch."

Peter cocked his head to the side, sighing. "Asking you to eat, and taking you to lunch, are two very different things. See, that's the difference words can make, Neal. And you lost that chance. I changed my mind. I don't care if you eat."

Neal could feel Peter's hand tightening. This wasn't good. Not good at all. "May I go to the warehouse?" he asked with forced politeness. "If you're trying to make a point, you made it, loud and clear and –"

"And what? You'll never do it again?" Peter shot back. He pulled Neal closer to him, so they were truly face-to-face. "You'll never lie? Never disobey me? Listen when I tell you to sit down?"

"I'll try," Neal answered weakly. He should have just sat down. Why hadn't he? In the moment that hadn't seemed like a good idea. Why hadn't that been a good idea? In hindsight he now had no clue.

"You'll try? Not good enough. But I'm not going to worry about that right now. We are going upstairs."

"For _what_?" Neal insisted.

Peter studied the look in the blue eyes intently locked on him and realized he saw real fear. Good, Peter thought. Fear is good. Fear instills respect, discourages disobedience. "What do you think?" he asked.

Neal looked conflicted. He swallowed, and then he glanced down at the bullpen again. "I don't know. But I don't agree with it. And…" Another thought crossed his mind. "And I don't want to be locked up."

Peter frowned briefly. "What?"

"The holding cells," Neal reminded, voice just above a whisper. "I don't want to be in there, Peter."

Peter was initially caught off guard at the comment and then realized he'd been threatening that more and more recently. And it seemed to be effective. "Tempting," Peter acknowledged, considering the idea. "But not what crossed my mind. We need to talk, remember?" he told him irritably. The truth also was while it made a fantastic threat, Peter wasn't sure he'd actually be able to do it. If Neal begged him not to, he wasn't sure he could follow through. At least not to leave him there alone a long time.

"Does 'talk' have an ulterior meaning?" Neal asked.

"It could," Peter answered stiffly. "If you don't come with me right now." He squeezed his arm with the last word. "And then it will be the holding cells. Until I decide to let you out."

"Okay," Neal agreed quickly. "I'll come with you." He swallowed again. He didn't want any more eyes on this scene, and Peter could get loud if he got angry. The last thing he wanted was to be manhandled across the bullpen. That would be too embarrassing. He couldn't imagine even returning to the office after that. Peter rarely reprimanded him with an audience, and Neal didn't want that to change now.

"Stay here, give me a second," Peter directed, letting him go briefly to walk back towards his office.

Neal turned and watched Peter go around his desk and pull open a drawer, rummaging through it. Then he looked back at the rest of the office. Free from being restrained, he also looked towards the exit door. He could just leave. If he left now, he'd be a good ten feet away from him. Neal was pretty certain as long as he was out of reach of Peter that he could get away easily. He may not be as strong as Peter, but he was definitely faster.

But Peter was back at his side before he could create that opportunity.

"Let's go," Peter said.

"I need to be back at the bar tonight," Neal reminded him. "And I need to go the warehouse. And I need to change before all that. Can't I just–"

"No." Peter shook his head. "You can't. Come with me." He started walking towards the stairs, beckoning Neal to follow with a gesture of his hand.

Neal did follow, though unwillingly which showed in his posture. "I'll still be able to do those things?" Neal asked.

"Yes," Peter affirmed.

That made Neal feel slightly better given he had no idea what Peter had in mind and why they had to go upstairs. Neal felt slightly self-conscious as certain agents watched them cross the room, having observed the scene from a few minutes ago outside Peter's office. But he tried to block them out, keeping his chin high. He didn't care what they thought.

Until they ran into Diana crossing the room. Peter stopped, so Neal stopped behind him, and she took them both into her view. First she observed the annoyed look on Peter's face, which flashed her back to the conference room the night before when Peter had thrown his phone across the room in an unusual display of anger, and then the sullen look on Neal's face; he looked chastened but also a bit uneasy.

She kept her attention on Neal. "That was quite the surprise last night, Caffrey," she said, a little sarcastically. "Your little connection? Talk about waiting to the last minute."

Neal stayed silent. He didn't want to create any more tension with Peter. And he didn't know how to respond to avoid that.

"What part about his picture on the wall all week didn't spark that memory until then?" she asked provocatively, tilting her head to the side. "You know, so I know what to do differently next time."

Neal initially felt uncomfortable, glancing sideways at Peter for a reaction and then back to Diana, who had a bit of a smirk on her face. But then he repositioned himself and cleared his throat. "Hughes said I did a good job," he told her.

"Not quite those words," Peter muttered, as Diana's expression flashed brief surprise. He sighed. "Diana, keep me posted on Messier's location. I need to handle something with Neal but call me if something comes up. If we can figure out where he is based on credit card charges, or cell phone records…"

"Will do, Boss," she answered. She sent Neal a look and then walked away.

Peter kept walking, the order to follow him unspoken. Neal tailed him like a shadow and then was quiet until they were in the elevator. He then felt the need to fill the void of conversation and to try to break the tension. "Peter. Did you know all elevators have mirrors?" he spoke as they entered the elevator.

Peter looked at him warily as he pressed the number for one floor up. "What?"

Neal stared at the closing doors of the elevator. "In New York City, elevators are legally required to have mirrors."

Peter sighed, recalling the law. "Yes. That's true." He frowned at the random offering of the fact.

The elevator dinged as they made it to the next floor. Peter walked out and Neal briefly considered not following.

"Neal," Peter said, without turning, as though knowing the temptation.

With that, Neal stepped out of the elevator as well, following begrudgingly. "Peter, is this all really necessary?"

"Yes," Peter answered. "Keep walking."

Neal followed, frowning at the floor of their building that was rarely visited. This floor housed rooms and rooms of archived files, a few abandoned offices, on one side of the floor had a number of holding cells, and then in the side Peter was heading, conference rooms.

Peter walked into one of these conference rooms, one with expansive windows and a sunny exposure, and moved in to take a seat in one of the chairs at the table.

Neal hesitated in the doorway. He stared across the six feet between them at Peter. "What now?" he asked.

"Now we talk," Peter responded. "Here." He reached to pull out the chair next to him and gestured to it. "Sit. And listen this time."

Neal paused, registering that Peter's voice sounded slightly less angry than before, though the man still didn't sound pleased. But he didn't feel many choices right now in what to do next. And he realized adding another example of not listening to Peter's direction was probably not in his best interest right now. So he swallowed and pushed himself away from the doorway into the room, and slowly closed the gap to settle into the chair next to Peter.

Peter leaned forward slightly, and he placed a hand on Neal's knee. "Listen," he said, tone even. "I'm not happy with you. But I'm trying not to be angry even though I'm actually pissed as hell. But I'm going to try here. You keep making that hard, by the way. You don't have many chances left here, so you need to cooperate."

"Cooperate with what?" Neal asked. How could he cooperate with something he didn't know about?

"Talking. Like you said you would." Peter raised his hand up to his jacket pocket and pulled out a small recording device. He placed it on the table in front of them.

Neal stared at him with uncertainty.

Peter met his eye contact patiently. "So let's be honest here as a next step, alright? I'm mad about yesterday, Neal. About what you didn't tell me ahead of time. And why you don't think that matters, because it does. Because that's not how agents manage a case. I'm also not happy that you tried to use your relationship with Jason as leverage over me. But we'll talk about that later. Let's focus on your history with him first. Make me understand. You owe me the story."

"The story…" Neal said slowly.

Peter nodded. "The whole story. You know Jason from the past. Fine. But I need to know about it. Every detail… Like I said this morning, everything is relevant. Everything. Understand? Do you remember this morning?"

Neal eyed him carefully, running a nervous hand through his hair. "Yes, Peter. I do… But… What about lunch?"

"Lunch," Peter echoed. He shook his head. "Neal, if – "

"I'm hungry," Neal stated.

Peter glanced at his watch again, sighing and revisiting his words from a few minutes ago how Neal had lost his chance to have lunch. He realized that was perhaps a little harsh. He tried to think back to the terms of the CI agreement and whether he was really responsible for making sure he was fed and got breaks. Between himself and El, he was pretty sure they had made themselves responsible for aspects of Neal's life that likely an average CI wouldn't have managed by his handler, but meals? Neal had eaten plenty of home cooked meals at the Burke residence, but that was –

"Am I not allowed to eat?" Neal asked at the pause in response.

Peter looked back at his CI. "What do you want?"

Neal smirked a bit before responding, causing Peter to interject before he could make a request.

"Let me rephrase that," Peter said stiffly. "What do you want within reason? I'll get someone to get you a sandwich but you're not getting filet mignon and you're not _going_ anywhere."

"Do you know there was once a prison riot in Boston over lobster?"

"I'm not getting you lobster either."

"I don't want lobster. I was only—"

"Only diverting, like usual." Peter frowned at him. "You want a sandwich? That I can arrange. But we need to start talking."

"Depends. What kind of sandwich?"

Peter gave a tight smile and shook his head, shifting his chair closer to Neal. He put his hand on his knee again and squeezed. "Neal."

"Peter…" responded Neal tentatively.

Peter squeezed his knee again, harder. "We need to start talking. I have a feeling what I need to hear from you isn't just a quick conversation. So I advise you to stop with the culinary concerns."

Neal's phone then began to ring. He pushed his chair back, breaking the contact between himself and Peter, and stretching to reach for his phone from his pocket. He looked at the caller ID, paused, and then looked up at Peter.

"What?" Peter asked in exasperation at the conflicted, beseeching look on Neal's face.

"It's Jason," Neal responded softly.

Peter paused, clearing his throat. "Call him back in a minute." Normally he would prioritize anything that was a lead on the case. This time, he couldn't. They had to do this first. He watched Neal place the phone on the conference room table slowly, and observed the phone continuing to ring in a silenced mode. "Let's talk."

"He probably wants to meet me," Neal continued. He shifted again his chair. "Probably wants to continue our discussion from last night. I—"

"You know what I want from you," Peter said stiffly, interrupting. "You know me well by now, Neal. So you can make this easy or hard. But I'm getting information from you before you talk to him again. This can go as fast as you make it."

"Why's it matter?" Neal frowned.

"Because," Peter responded in exasperation. "There's an existing history here, Neal. That could mean anything. I don't know what you did for him, or them, and I don't know what else there is to the story. Maybe what you know could offer leads we haven't though about digging into yet. Maybe there's other contacts to add to the list. What I do know is I don't trust this guy, and I have a feeling there's more to him than art forgery. And if you were part of that—"

"I wasn't!" Neal suddenly exclaimed, with a look of surprise at the suggestion. He shook his head and frowned. "I mean, there was more than the forgery, but I didn't do anything that wasn't related to the artwork, Peter."

"What _did_ you do?" Peter responded. He watched a mix of emotions cross Neal's face in brief previews, including mostly hesitation. "Why won't you tell me?"

Neal's phone buzzed on the table with the tell-tale sign of a voicemail. "Can I listen to that?"

"In a minute."

"If Hughes—"

"Leave him out of it," Peter interposed. "Do not use his name as leverage. You can listen to it, you can call him back, all in a minute… Neal, I need to know more about these guys. You need to fill me in on ten years ago. Especially if there is anything dangerous here. With Jason or anybody else."

"You know," Neal started slowly, tone sarcastic. "Maybe the other day when I suggested _always_ wearing a vest I had a point."

Peter didn't find the comment funny. He stared at his charge, this untrained, young, and impulsive responsibility that was going to be the end of him. "No, you didn't have a point. And you haven't answered my question. Or rather, questions…"

Neal's eyes darted briefly to the recording device on the table. "And you're recording so that…"

"So that I don't have to take notes."

"And how are you going to _use_ this information…?"

Peter sighed. "Neal?"

"Yes…" Neal frowned.

"Do you trust me?"

"Not always when you're mad," Neal responded with a shrug. "Sometimes you're different when you're mad. And you're mad right now."

Peter wasn't completely sure how to respond to that and hesitated at first. He was different when mad? In what way? His mind searched for examples for a moment, and then he responded. "I'm not different," he objected. "Except for reacting to the reason that I'm angry." He paused. "How did you first meet Jason?"

"I don't want my name _in_ this case, Peter."

"It won't be." Peter shook his head. "That's not what this is about, Neal. I already told you. Nothing about your record, or deal, or anything will change based on what you give me."

Neal continued to look hesitant. He stared at his phone.

"How did you meet him?" Peter persisted.

"Through a friend."

"Mozzie?"

"No. Mozzie doesn't know him."

"Is it worth looking into this friend?"

Neal frowned and turned his gaze to Peter. "His name was Adam. I haven't spoken to him since around that time."

"Is he worth looking into?" Peter repeated.

"I don't know. I can give you his full name." Neal paused. "At least, his name at that time."

"And he introduced you, why?" Peter leaned forward, reaching for the recording device, and picked it up. He pressed the record button and repeated his question. "Why did Adam introduce you to Jason?"

"Because Jason, and I guess Messier, were looking for some help." Neal scrutinized the recording device. "Peter. Is that really necessary?"

"Yes," Peter responded.

Neal looked at odds with the idea. But then seemed to accept it. "Peter, I'll tell you everything. If I can get a sandwich."

Peter gave him a weary look. He reached to turn off the device. "If you're just wasting time—"

"I'm not," Neal objected. "I'm hungry. Then I'll tell you everything."

Peter studied him and then sighed, pulling out his own phone. "Okay. Let me have them grab you something."

"Order something I'd eat," Neal requested. "Not you. No deviled ham."

Peter shot him a warning look as he dialed Diana. "Hey," he spoke into the phone as she answered. "Diana, I need a favor. Or Neal does."

Neal watched Peter make the request and restlessly tapped his foot on the floor beneath him. He clenched one hand in the other and took a deep breath. Ten years ago. It was a long time. And there was a lot to remember.

He swallowed as he watched Peter, now calmer than before, hang up the call with Diana.

"Happy?" Peter asked, raising his eyebrows. "Can we continue?"

Neal paused and then nodded. "Yeah. Okay." He watched Peter lean over to activate the device again. "I guess it all starts with why I created Willy…"

Peter leaned back in his chair, giving Neal his full attention. "Let's hear it."

Neal nodded again, taking another deep breath before he started to talk.


	17. Chapter 17

Sorry for the delinquency in getting the chapter out. I also happen to have a couple standalone gibberish pieces of WC fiction that I haven't been able to incorporate into this that I might post separately at some point after I clean them up, though I am prioritizing this story. Just want to say that the comments, even if a word or two, are extremely appreciated and inspiring. So thank you for those that do leave them. For the 'guests' that leave messages, I wish there was a way to PM you but thank you nonetheless. I'll try to have an update up in about a week again.

* * *

Peter listened to Neal carefully as the younger man finally began to talk. Despite Neal's eventual, though reluctant, agreement to discuss this part of his history, it still took a few minutes of Neal starting and stopping, asking again a handful of times if Peter could confirm with absolute certainty that nothing he could say would implicate him in anyway. Peter reassured him each time, dismissing the concept and trying to erase the look of concern from Neal's face by adopting a calm one of his own. Which was tough because he didn't feel calm. But those were just temporary emotions. In reality, he had absolutely no intention of Neal's name being included in this case in any capacity beyond his undercover role and potentially as a past witness. Despite this reassurance, Neal still seemed uncomfortable.

It finally dawned on Peter at one point of his hesitation what the problem was, and he realized with disdain that it was his own shortcoming to not have noticed sooner. His usual Caffrey radar would have picked up on the insecurity and body language immediately, and he realized the distractions of the case itself had distorted his perspective. He also realized he'd been so focused on being mad at Neal that his perception was skewed. This had nothing to do with Neal's record, alleged or otherwise.

So after Neal had started and stopped once again, and was going down yet another path of tentativeness and objection with an approach that started with, "Peter, I was just thinking. Are you sure that maybe I shouldn't sign something before talking about this?" Peter cut him off with a stern, "Neal, enough," and shook his head. Then he bluntly and without much bravado said, "I'm not going to judge you."

Neal frowned then and stared at him suddenly with deep blue eyes, pooled with a mix of confusion at first, as though not expecting those words, and then what appeared to be partial relief. "What?" he asked quietly.

"I'm not going to judge you," Peter repeated in a calm and steady tone. "Whatever you tell me now, in this room, it's in the past."

"Yeah, but –"

"But nothing. Neal, whatever you did ten years ago, you can't undo it. And I know you've done a lot that I don't know about." As Neal's focus uncomfortably shifted to his hands folded on the table, Peter persisted. "Neal, I know who you are. I know you understand right and wrong. And anything you tell me today about a decade again before I even met you isn't going to change my opinion on that. Got it?"

"Alright," Neal answered slowly.

"Am I your friend?"

"You're a suit."

Peter frowned at Neal's sudden use of Mozzie terminology. "Look at me." He waited for Neal to look up, ignoring the fact that once he did, he held his gaze cautiously for only a few seconds before looking away again. "Suit or not," Peter continued, "I'll feel the same way after you talk as I did before. I mean it. So no sugarcoating. No hiding anything. Today I need to know everything. For the case. Understand?"

Neal nodded. "Okay, Peter."

"Good. Now try again."

Finally, with that last personal assurance, Neal started again. And finally he got into a rhythm of speaking that was uninterrupted as he slowly opened up about his past.

The story of Willy's creation immediately left gaps that Peter had questions for but was hesitant yet to pry. Before his series of attempts at stalling the discussion, Neal had started the conversation by saying he would begin with 'why' he had created Willy. And Peter was very interested in this. But so far the explanation provided no more support than Neal simply needing an alias to explore some new opportunities. It didn't explain the name, the reference, or the timing, or anything at all. It was just another alias. Which Peter didn't think was the real scenario.

He knew it wasn't the real scenario.

But Peter let that pass for the moment as he listened.

Over time, Peter had learned pieces of Neal's past in incremental fragments beyond what was initially gathered in his records by prior investigation efforts and trials. In certain moments, Neal would get comfortable enough to open up to Peter. This was usually in a moment where certain walls were removed, for one reason or another. Boredom and complacency at a long stakeout, too much wine at dinner, fatigue, or injury combined with the right environment were usually triggering factors. Those factors could also quickly escalate into Neal being more closed off than usual if the right environment didn't accompany the other elements. And Peter did have any of those elements at his disposal now. This was simply Neal finally complying, through threats or otherwise, with his request to open up about something specific.

Peter always valued those rare moments of openness, because any other attempt at getting a real backstory out of Neal through simple questions was usually met with rolled eyes of exasperation or a skilled change in subject.

As Neal spoke now, Peter found himself drawn in. Perhaps it was the artist in him, but Neal was an articulate storyteller when he wanted to be.

Their seating also worked well. While close in proximity, while side-by-side Neal wasn't forced while speaking to meet Peter's eye. And although that somewhat bothered Peter, since he often instructed Neal to look at him directly when speaking to ensure sincerity, not being forced to do so seemed to offer a level of relaxation to Neal that was conducive to the discussion.

He had moved quickly beyond the creation to the alias itself and was speaking more about how he met Jason. That initial meeting wasn't what Peter was most interested in, more so the collaboration afterwards, but Peter let him tell it anyway, not wanting to risk anything being left out or causing Neal to close up again. Once the talking started, Peter wanted it to keep going until he'd heard everything he needed to. And he didn't care how long it took.

"It was Friday the thirteenth when we finally met in person," Neal was saying, an example of an irrelevant fact that Peter didn't care about but bit his tongue to avoid revealing his impatience. Neal had already spent several minutes explaining how his friend Adam had this particular contact, and how they were using their network to find out more about a potential opportunity. Peter was anxious to get to the meat of the background. Meanwhile, Neal continued on his current diatribe, "I remember that – the date I mean—because he made a joke about triskaidekaphobia being the longest word he knew." He smirked.

"Let me guess," Peter responded slowly, a carefully thought out response. The last thing he wanted was to send Neal off on an unrelated tangent. "Upon hearing that, you responded that—"

"That I was obviously surprised he didn't know the word supercalifragilisticexpialidocious."

Peter rolled his eyes. "How did I know…?" he mumbled.

"Anyway…" Neal continued, glancing sideways at Peter with a small smile. "It took a while, even with Adam vouching for me, before Jason actually opened up about their business." He paused. "I saw him a few times until then, kind of social settings, and then finally he asked me to show him some of my work."

"Your work."

"Yes," Neal answered. "And after I showed him a few things I'd done, I also mentioned some events I might have allegedly been a part of…" He hesitated, briefly looking at Peter before continuing. "Then he seemed to trust me. Or at least started to. Maybe he _wanted_ to trust me at that point. Because he saw what I could potentially do for them."

"I see. Then what?"

"Then he gave me some challenges."

"Challenges?"

"Like tests."

Peter frowned, tilting his head slightly to regard Neal in question. "Give me an example."

Neal shrugged. "I had to prove I was capable to do some of the things I said I was. Some of the things they would need help with."

"Example, Neal."

Neal's brow furrowed. "Well, the test was small scale but I had to show him my ability to forge a few different types of items. And..." He shrugged. "You know. Like other different things to show I was useful."

Peter frowned. They had barely started but already Neal was starting to look uncomfortable again. Useful. That was a vague word. That could mean many things. Peter tried to push gently. "What other different things would be useful?"

"Forgery." Neal eyed Peter carefully as he released the words.

"You already said that one."

Neal paused and then sighed. "Sleight of hand."

"Stealing."

"Sometimes," Neal admitted. His shifted his position in the conference room chair worryingly. "You said you wouldn't judge, Peter. But I'm sensing otherwise."

Peter shrugged, shaking his head. "I'm not judging, Neal. It's years ago. Like I said before. No judgment. I already knew you did young and stupid things years ago. This is to help us with the case. This isn't about you specifically."

"Except it is."

"It's about the case. What did you steal?" Peter persisted. "Art?"

"Sometimes."

"You obviously passed his test, Neal. So what else did you steal?"

"It wasn't always stealing."

"And when it was? What was the target if it wasn't art?" As he sensed the hesitation, he tried to prod him further. "You're doing good. Keep talking, Neal."

"Money," Neal answered, again shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "Or other items."

"Like what?"

"Like anything," Neal answered, voice a bit stiff. "It depended what they needed." He shrugged and let out a slightly exasperated sigh. "It always changed. One time I had to pose as a resident at a local hospital and—" He cut himself off as he felt Peter's eyes on him, a burning stare. He looked up briefly. "Maybe some of this isn't relevant, Peter?"

"Neal, I told you," Peter answered stiffly, trying to keep his voice calm. He tried to remove the accusatory element of his stare, to soften his expression. He struggled. "It's all relevant. What'd you take from the hospital, Neal?"

"It wasn't Neal," he objected. "It was Willy."

"Sure. What'd Willy take?"

Neal shrugged, an increasingly common response in discussion, and a little more dismissively than earlier. Walls were up. "Uh, there were some prescriptions. And..." he trailed off. "And I don't remember exactly. It was a long time ago."

"What'd they do with the prescriptions?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't ask?"

Neal looked surprised at the question and scoffed. "Of course not."

"No one caught you?"

Neal let out a small laugh. "No."

Peter tried once again to remove the disapproving look from his face as he felt the feeling of disappointment return and just nodded. He tried to remain objective. The additional information of stealing from hospitals didn't sit well with him, but he knew he couldn't dwell. Not in this conversation. This wasn't current Neal. This was an unguided version of Neal from years ago. "And you stole art as well? From where?"

Neal leaned back in his chair. "Peter…" His voice crossed into a slightly whining pitch. "I don't know about this."

"Not asking for specifics, Neal. Just examples."

"Specific examples?"

Peter sighed. "Come on."

"From different places." Neal leaned back in the chair further and cast his eyes towards the ceiling. "Homes, offices…. Churches. A couple galleries…"

"Churches, Neal?" Peter asked in surprise.

Neal just turned his head slightly and narrowed his eyes. "Peter, if we're going to do this then –"

"Right, right…" Peter shook his head, taking a deep breath. No judging, no reproach. This was a story of ten years ago. This was an impulsive, opportunistic, younger Neal that took his crimes to a different level. This Neal had never received any official consequences and still thought he was immortal. "How long did you work for him?"

"Not long," Neal answered. "I know it sounds like a lot, but… It really wasn't that long." He waited a moment and then continued. "There was other stuff they were involved in as well, Peter. I don't know for sure, but I heard some things when I came by to make deliveries. I never asked. Because you don't ask those things. But I know for sure they had some other businesses beyond just the art dealership."

"Like what other kind of business?"

"I don't know for sure," Neal repeated. "Adam and I used to speculate." He frowned. "One time, Adam claimed he'd overheard this conversation at the office…" He ran a hand over his head, fingers threading his hair. He paused, frowning deeply for a minute as he thought back. "I wasn't there and didn't hear it first hand… But he thought he heard them talking about girls."

"Girls?" Peter frowned as well.

"Yeah, and some sort of drop. I don't know. I don't completely remember because I didn't know at the time what it really meant and then I…" He shrugged. "Adam said he asked, which was _stupid_ , about which girls, and Jason gave him some sort of dismissive answer about there being a lot of 'different kinds of art'. And then changed the subject."

"What was that supposed to mean?" Peter responded slowly. He suddenly had a bad feeling, a dark feeling, about these people and what they had been involved in.

"I told you. I don't really know. It was hearsay. And I wasn't about to ask. I never heard anything like that when I was there. And you don't _ask_ about things like that."

"Did Adam ever hear anything like that again?"

"I don't know because…" Neal trailed off slightly. He then looked up at Peter. "Adam disappeared soon after that."

"Disappeared?"

"Yeah. Like a week after that conversation." Neal looked slightly perplexed. "I never really thought about that timeline before." He paused and tilted his head to the side. "I didn't ever really start thinking about any timelines that way until I started doing all these investigations with you. Do you think he disappeared because of them?"

"Because he asked them about that conversation?"

"I don't know," Neal answered, turning his chair slightly towards Peter, voice rising slightly. "Jason told me Adam had a job out of town." He paused. "And I didn't know him _that_ well. And then… a lot of things changed. For me and for them. And I was onto something else. I just figured he didn't want to keep in touch. I never really questioned it."

Peter questioned it. Because Neal had referred to this person as a friend, yet these circumstances made that questionable. "How long did you know Adam?"

"A few months," Neal answered.

Peter considered that and tried to remember back to that age. When a short amount of time, hell sometimes a summer, would feel in its moment a lifetime. He supposed a 'friend' could be a fair weather one; important at a moment but not the next. Forgotten when the next 'friend' or big thing came along. He didn't want to get into the psychology of that with Neal at the moment. It was the broader insinuation that bothered him more.

"You think Jason is dangerous, Neal?" Peter asked.

"Are you asking that because you think he had something to do with Adam?"

Peter wasn't sure at first how to answer that. "I don't know, Neal," he responded honestly. "My only 'live' exposure to this guy is listening to him talk to you yesterday. I've never even seen him in person. I know this conversation, the one from last night, and whatever was in the case files we went through." He cleared his throat. "He's never been convicted of anything violent. That's why I'm asking you."

Neal shook his head. "I never saw him do anything violent. Not with me."

"Did he have a temper?"

Neal smirked. "No more than you."

"Neal…" Peter chided, shaking his head. Then he changed course. "You want us to look up Adam?"

Neal frowned at the suggestion. "No," he replied.

"You sure?"

"I don't know if that was his real name anyway."

"We can try."

"No," Neal insisted, shaking his head. "I'd… I'd rather not, Peter."

"Why?"

Neal drummed his hands against the table. "It's been a long time, Peter. I don't think it matters."

"Any chance he's still connected with these guys?"

"I doubt it." Neal made a face. "And…" He shook his head. "No, let's not."

"What were you going to say? And what?"

Neal pressed his lips together briefly. Then he said, a little bit quieter, "Don't you think there's some things that sometimes it's just better off you not know?"

"You mean you think something might have happened and you don't want to know?"

"No. I _don't_ _think_ something happened because I don't _want_ to think about it," Neal answered swiftly. "Adam was friends with Willy. We were friends. That was it. And that was a long time ago."

"But Willy is back, so –"

"No, Peter," Neal insisted. "No. I don't want to know."

Peter allowed the interruption and leaned back against his own chair. He exhaled deeply. "There's still more with Jason we need to talk about… But you never really explained why you picked the name, Neal. Why Willy?"

"I like Arthur Miller," Neal answered.

"Yeah?" Peter raised his eyebrows. "Alright. I can see that." He paused. "They told me you read a lot in prison. I didn't know about when you were younger. At least fictional novels and plays anyway. Art History? Sure… Screenplays?"

Neal was silent.

Peter wasn't surprised at the fact. Neal was normally filled with interesting facts and tales. It wasn't a surprise it was due to being well-read versus taught. "So what about Willy?" Peter asked.

"I thought he was an interesting character," Neal started slowly in response. "And when I was…. When I was trying to make a name for myself, there were a few aspects of his character that resonated with me."

"Like what?" Peter had been meaning to re-read Death of Salesman since the moment Neal referenced the name. It had been years since he'd read it, so while he remembered the basic premise, he was increasingly curious what had resonated with Neal. Since that initial reference, however, there had been so much going on that Peter had barely even had a moment to track down a version of the text.

Neal smiled briefly and then glanced at Peter, meeting brown eyes with deep blue. "I feel like it'll sound silly out loud."

"Try me," Peter answered.

"Try you… You and the… the audience." Neal waved his hand at the recording device.

"Try us," Peter persisted.

"Well, it was more of a statement on the career choice and approach than me personally."

Peter nodded. "Okay."

"I mean…. Do you remember the play?"

"I do," Peter said slowly, though he again regretted not having had the time to revisit it in detail. He'd missed an opportunity to gather that insight to help guide this discussion. "What made you choose it?"

Neal looked thoughtful for a minute, and his mouth parted slightly as though to respond. But then a knock at the entrance of the conference room at the door caught both of their attentions and they turned to view the interruption.

Diana stood there, looked un-amused, likely at the fact she'd been asked to run a delivery errand for Neal, and she gazed at them emotionless from her spot in the doorway. "Seamless here," she said sarcastically. "For one Neal Caffrey." She held up in one hand a plastic bag from the deli down the street and a cup of coffee in the other.

"Thanks, Diana," Peter said sincerely, after exhaling a poorly concealed breath of disappointment that Neal had been interrupted at that point in their conversation. There was still so much left to uncover. But that wasn't Diana's fault. Diana had done exactly what he'd told her.

Neal didn't seem to mind the interruption as he leaned forward and quickly turned off the recording device on the table before he smiled at Diana, turning his chair to face her more directly. "That was fast," he said appreciatively. "What'd you get me?"

"What I got you is what you're having," she said simply, giving him a shrug.

He frowned.

She cocked her head to the side. "Neal. Unless you're suddenly gluten free or vegan, this should meet your expectations." She walked across the room to close the gap between them, and then dropped the bag on the table in front of Neal. She then more gently placed the Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of him. "Happy?"

"Not sure yet," Neal responded as he reached for the bag.

"Peter," Diana objected with a roll of eyes. "Despite whatever you and El have gotten him used to, I guarantee what I chose is well beyond the standard prison-grade choices."

"I'm sure," Peter responded as he watched Neal begin to expose the contents of the bag.

"A cookie," Neal said with a smile, pulling the plastic wrapped dessert out of the bag first.

"It apparently comes free with the sandwich," Diana responded dryly.

Peter observed his agent and his CI's interaction with a sigh. He suddenly felt a realization that the progress of his conversation with Neal was going to take a detour, and he felt a sense of foreboding. He knew forcing him to sit and openly provide all the needed history in one session was a long shot, but for a moment he'd actually felt traction. That traction was quickly dissipating. This was further solidified when Diana turned to him.

"If nutrition concerns are addressed, Boss," she said slowly, tone slightly laced with sarcasm, "I've got some other updates."

"Yeah?" Peter asked, glancing briefly at Neal as he extracted an aluminum foil covered sandwich from the bag.

"Have a possible location on Messier. He's way upstate if the credit card records are any indication. He also seems to have switched vehicles so we need to get the locals aware of the new plates. No activity on his cell. Makes us think he switched lines or has a burner." She paused. "Do you want me to assign any agents locally?"

"Not yet," Peter responded after a brief pause. "Not until we know what he's up to there. Until then, I want eyes to remain on Jason."

"Does this have cheese?" Neal asked as he slowly unwrapped his sandwich, suddenly more focused on that task than the case relevant conversation.

"I don't know," Diana answered stiffly. "I guess you'll find out."

"How do you not know?" Neal cast her a skeptical look. "You ordered it. Didn't you?"

"Yeah. I pointed to the number on the deli board and said 'that one', hotshot," she answered back impatiently. "If the number 7 has cheese, then it has cheese."

"But –"

"Neal," Peter interjected. "Let's focus on the case and not the contents of your sandwich, alright? And you like cheese, so shut up." He had a feeling that Neal's off topic focus had more to do with his desire to derail the earlier track of the conversation on his history than any actual concerns about his lunch, and tried to manage that aspect of the exchange.

Diana cleared her throat, eyeing Neal briefly with derision before turning back to Peter. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Also…. Hughes came by, looking for you. I told him you were with Neal, and he then made the assumption you guys were at the warehouse…"

"We _should_ be at the warehouse," Neal pointed out.

Peter shot him a look, and then turned a more patient look at Diana. "I'll call him."

"He said he wants to know where we are on the inventory and also wants a live play-by-play when Neal goes back inside later today."

Peter nodded. "Got it." He knew Hughes was anxious for the case to move forward. And probably wouldn't be thrilled to know how he was spending the current time with Neal, but also knew personally it was important to have the discussion with his CI. "Thanks, Diana. Keep track of Messier for me. We'll let you know when we head over to the warehouse."

"We?" Neal asked, more of a mutter under his breath than a real question.

"Sounds good," Diana answered. She gave Peter a nod and then turned to leave the room, calling behind her as she walked, "Enjoy your lunch, Caffrey."

Peter turned his attention back to Neal, watching him carefully take a bite from a half of the sandwich, which appeared to be something attune to a club sandwich. "Neal."

"Mm-hm," Neal answered as he chewed. He glanced briefly at Peter before turning back to his food and reaching for his coffee.

"You're not done talking," Peter told him. "Hope you realize that. Diana wasn't your saving grace."

Neal swallowed down the bite of sandwich and took a long sip of coffee. "She'd be glad to hear that."

"I'm serious."

"Me too. But I think within the documentation I signed for our agreement," he continued as took another sip of coffee, "that somewhere, probably on page one hundred something, it guaranteed me time for meals."

"It wasn't hundreds of pages, Neal," Peter responded. "And I don't know about meals, but it definitely stated the requirement that you abide by all instructions of the FBI at all times. So consider this a working lunch."

Neal's expression indicated his displeasure but also his acknowledgement that he probably didn't have much negotiation room here. "Peter. I know. But can I at least have ten minutes?"

Peter studied him, observing the hopeful look on his face, and then glanced down at the food, which was barely touched other than the single bite from the sandwich. As eager as Peter was to get the conversation jumpstarted again, he also had a hard time saying no to that face for such an innocuous and reasonable request. The pathetic version of Neal from the morning also flashed back to him. So he sighed, pushing back his chair with a small grunt as he stood. "Fine. Ten minutes. Not a minute more though." He glanced towards the doorway. "Let me give Hughes a quick call in the meantime." He took a couple steps towards the door and then turned back to Neal. "And it's ten minutes to eat, Neal. Nothing else. You move from that table and –"

"Let me guess – You'll lock me up?" Neal finished, swiveling in his chair to view his handler, smirk clear on his face.

"Or something," Peter muttered. Then he spoke more definitively. "If that's not enough to sway you, I can easily think of other consequences."

"It's enough. But what if I need to use the restroom?"

Peter gave him a look. "You know what I mean, Neal."

Neal nodded, smirking slightly as he turned back to the table.

Peter stared at the back of Neal for a moment further, watching his charge pick up the half of a sandwich again, and then moved out of the room to walk across to another part of the empty floor to make a phone call.

* * *

"Hon, I'm so sorry I'm late," Elizabeth spoke, slightly out of breath as she came through the front door of the Burke's Brooklyn townhome later that evening.

Peter looked up from his seat on the couch at his wife, giving her a forced smile in response. He owed his wife a smile but he was deep in thought. "No problem," he said. He rested the book he'd been reading on his lap. "I've had things to do. Long day?"

"Just a really difficult client," she answered with a slightly exasperated sigh. She shrugged her jacket off and walked to hang it in the front hall closet. "I swear _nothing_ made him happy. Nothing at all." She paused in her complaint and put a hand on her hip as she turned back to view Peter. "And no, I do not want to talk about it at home or I'll get all worked up again." She gave him a tired smile.

"You can talk about it if you want," Peter told her slowly. "I can't even count all the times I've brought home some sort of tirade about Neal…. or hell… even brought _him_ home."

"That's different." She gave a small shake of her head as she unhurriedly walked towards the couch. "How is he by the way? He was still asleep when I left this morning. I looked in on him but didn't want to wake him. He seemed deep in sleep. Is he feeling okay?"

"He's okay. He's…. Neal," Peter answered, frowning slightly. "Sleep simply recharged him. I honestly should have spoken to him this morning when I had the chance." _When I had him pinned down_ , he thought to himself.

"Hon, he was in no condition to talk to you this morning," she disagreed as she sank into the couch next to her husband. She leaned over and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. "All you were going to get this morning if you kept going was World War III. You weren't going to get what you wanted. He was closer to tears than truth."

"No. He—"

"Peter," she objected authoritatively. "Trust me. Agree to disagree, but you were _not_ going to get what you wanted."

"Well, I didn't get what I wanted this afternoon either."

"What do you mean?"

"I tried to talk to him. I tried to have him tell me the full story of what he knew and what he's experienced with these guys. And he… He did tell me a lot." Peter thought back on the confession of forging, and stealing, and potentially other indiscretions with a furrowed brow. "But I still feel like something is missing. And I'm trying to figure out the meaning of his damn alias."

El gestured towards the book folded open on Peter's knee. "What's this?" She reached for it and turned to read the cover. "Death of a Salesman?" She gave him an inquisitive look.

"I'm speed-reading it," Peter explained.

"Come again?"

Peter smirked. "I read it years ago… So I need a refresher."

"Maybe you should have gone with Sparknotes…" she commented wryly.

"Maybe," Peter acknowledged. He sighed and took the book back from her, folding the corner of the current page it was open to in order to earmark it before setting it down next to him. "But I'm almost done."

"And remind me why?" she asked. "I mean, it's a great play, but…"

"Neal's alias from years ago, the one he's leveraging now, was named after the main character," Peter explained. "Which has me curious."

"How's that going to help you solve the case?" she questioned.

He let out a small chuckle. "You know what's funny… I imagined Hughes asking me the exact same thing if he knew how I was spending my time."

She gave a small smile. "But you think it might help you figure something out about Neal."

"Maybe. I mean, he chose this name for a reason. And it's an alias I _never_ knew about…"

"Find anything so far?" She gestured at the book.

"Well the psychology is interesting…" Peter said slowly, glancing at the book as though it might respond.

"In what way?"

"Well, the view of this character on what it means to be successful…" Peter continued. "It's shallow. And kind of reminiscent of the way Neal operates."

"Neal isn't shallow," El answered with a frown.

"Hon, I know that." Peter rolled his eyes. "But on the exterior, his behavior often is. That's the con lifestyle." He paused. "So in the play, Willy believes that the key to success in life is basically just to be 'well-liked.' He says that all you need for success is 'a smile and a shoeshine.'" He shook his head. "This character basically believes, and outright says, and tries to teach to his sons, that if you can become popular and get people to like you, you'll have it made in life."

"Neal's pretty good at being popular…" El said with a shrug. "I mean, he's charming."

"Meaning he has a smile that gets him anything he wants," Peter pointed out.

"It's a good smile."

"El."

"Hon… I've seen that smile buy lots of things with you."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Once again. Agree to disagree."

"I'll reserve my host of examples." She smiled at her husband playfully. "But those themes. You think it resonated with him? What the character said?"

"Maybe," Peter admitted. "I really don't know. Maybe he felt that it was applicable to what he was doing while he was using this alias. It's interesting, because some of his old aliases were a bit of a joke. Almost immature. In name especially. This one seems a bit deeper."

"Did you ask him?"

"I tried," Peter answered, feeling slightly disgruntled. "I mean, that was part of the purpose today when I sat him down. And he said he would start with why he created Willy, but I still don't really feel like I know."

"Maybe you're overanalyzing it, Peter." She shrugged. "I don't think it means he's hiding something."

"Well, there's also what happens to Willy in the play."

El paused, frowning. "I'm trying to remember. It's been years for me as well. Doesn't he die?"

"He kills himself," Peter responded with a nod. "Enabling his family to get insurance money."

"Oh yeah," El said with a wince. "I remember that."

"But I'm not going to dwell on that part just yet…" Peter said with a sigh. "Not that detail. Just the whole thing. It has me wondering." Peter ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the roughness of stubble. "Some of the things he told me today… It makes me wonder if having him undercover is really such a good idea."

She frowned. "What do you mean, Hon?"

"I mean, I don't trust this Jason character."

"Well, he's an alleged criminal," she answered evenly. "So of course you don't trust him."

"It's more than that. There's what we think he's doing, which is the forgeries and falsified sales, but I think there's more than that. I think this guy is part of something bigger, and I don't like it."

"So investigate it."

"We are," he affirmed. "That's exactly what we're doing." Peter looked thoughtful for a moment. "There was a name Neal mentioned. Of a friend, or an acquaintance, that actually put him and Jason in touch… There's something odd about the details there too. Neal didn't give me his full name but… I think I'm going to ask him. Whether he wants to know what happened, the more I think about it I need to know."

"What do you mean, what happened?" El asked hesitantly.

"Apparently one day he just sort of disappeared. Jason told Neal that this guy had business out of town, and then as things evolved, Neal never really thought about it."

"So much for a 'friend' I guess," El said with a smirk.

"Exactly," Peter answered, with a quick roll of his eyes. "But I need to find out what happened. Because if Jason had anything to do with it and we can tie that back to him…"

"If he had something to do with it?" she echoed. "Meaning what, Peter? He's dangerous?" Her eyes widened slightly. "Peter, how dangerous?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Peter answered.

"But Neal—"

"Neal is fine right now," Peter assured, giving her a calm look. "Listen, El. We're focused on the art aspect. And the meetings are in a public place with a legitimate cover story. He's fine." He repeated the words as he tried to convince himself of the same thing. He wasn't going to unnecessarily worry El, who now had adopted a motherly look of concern on her face, and he wouldn't admit it out loud, but there was something else about Jason that didn't sit right with him. This wasn't your usual art forger.

"Are you _sure_ he's safe?"

"Yes," Peter answered. "And I'm going to be listening in again the whole time tonight, so I'll know if he isn't."

"What does Neal think?"

"He doesn't think, or doesn't know, whether Jason is dangerous," Peter admitted. "But I have a feeling if he did think so, he wouldn't tell me. He wants to be on this case." He shook his head. "We talked a lot today, and made some progress, but there's more… And unfortunately we got interrupted today, because the minute I gave Neal a lunch break and called Hughes, he wanted to meet. So we never got to finish the conversation, which I'm sure Neal is thrilled about…."

"So you can try again tomorrow," El responded assuredly. Then she smirked slightly. "So long as it's not six in the morning."

Peter rolled his eyes, feeling a pulse of the anxiety and anger of the morning. "If he does that again…" He shook his head. "He won't. Pretty sure anyway."

"He could at least warn me next time so I could make breakfast…" El smiled. She patted her husband on the leg supportively. "So what's the plan?"

"He's going undercover again tonight," Peter responded. "Same scenario. I'm sure Jason will want to pick up the conversation again. Given their history, he's not wasting time getting comfortable with Neal. He's going to move right in." He pressed his lips together. "Then we assess. Depending on what Jason says tonight, then we decide next steps."

She nodded. "Can you listen from here, or do you need to go to the office?"

"I can listen from here," Peter admitted. "But… I might go in." He sent her an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, El, but I'm closer to him from the office. If something happens –"

"What's going to happen?" she asked in alarm.

"Nothing," he assured. "I just feel better if I'm in the same borough as him during this, that's all."

"I understand," she said, giving a sympathetic squeeze to his arm. "That's fine, Peter. Of course. What time do you want to go over? Do you have time for dinner?"

"I'm going back over in a couple hours." Peter glanced at his watch. "And dinner with you?" he asked with a smile. "Of course I have time for dinner with you."

"Sure, like you _always_ do," she said sarcastically with a roll of her eyes but a smile. "And good. Because I'm craving Chinese and if we order for two I can have both the lo mein and the sesame chicken."

He smirked. "And… You just decided on my order," he chuckled.

She continued to smile. "Love you, Hon." She pushed herself up from the couch. "I'll call and order."

"Thanks," he responded. "Add a wonton soup." As she walked away, he reached to pick up the book again, giving it a quizzical stare. He couldn't help thinking of Neal. What else was there to this character…


	18. Chapter 18

One day later, Neal was at the warehouse, typing notes into the computer, irritated with himself for not yet having confirmed with Peter a better way to document the case notes.

Manually typing into the computer, pausing his thought process to actually document his findings… This was all new to him.

New and frustrating.

However, given the events of the last few days, he also realized the fact he was still personally enabled to be at the warehouse without any explicit supervision was probably something he shouldn't take for granted. Maybe Peter trusted him after all.

During that rationalization, or rather general thought process, was when his handler called.

Neal quickly tried to enter his last comments into the evidence computer ahead of losing the train of thought before answering the phone a few rings in. He got to his feet as he answered, stretching out his legs.

"Peter," he answered.

"Neal," Peter responded. "Hey. You good?"

"Yeah."

"How's the progress?"

"Progress? I _hate_ typing, Peter," Neal told him. "It's… a chore."

Peter chuckled ever so slightly. "Is that so…?"

"I mean it suppresses the whole creative thought process. Having to enter every damn word and —"

"You'd rather do it by hand?"

"No!" Neal objected. "That's not what I meant. That would be even worse. What I wanted to suggest—"

"We need the notes, Neal. Keep typing."

"But my fingers are cramping. What if I get carpal tunnel?"

"I doubt it, Neal. And this isn't why I called you," Peter answered with a slight tone of frustration. "I need your friend's full name."

"Which friend…?" Neal asked tentatively.

"Adam."

"Why?"

"I want Jones to see what he can dig up on him."

Neal hesitated, pausing a few seconds before answering…"I already told you that I don't want to know what happened."

"Neal, it's not about what you want. It's about the case. He was obviously connected to these guys at one point in time, just like you. And I can't leave that out of the investigation."

Neal sighed in exasperation. "What if I don't remember his last name?"

"Then I'm going to come over there and help you remember," Peter responded bluntly. "Come on."

Neal hesitated. He took a few steps around the room, circling as he considered next steps. He realized Peter probably wasn't going to drop this. And it wasn't exactly true that he didn't want to know what happened. He was curious. But he was also a little anxious about it. What if things hadn't ended well for Adam?

"Zolkes," Neal said.

"Can you spell it?"

While still feeling reluctant, Neal complied, slowly speaking the letters.

"Thank you, Neal."

"Whatever," Neal answered dismissively. He knew he shouldn't have any hard feelings against Peter for asking. He was surprised he hadn't pressed him for the name earlier. It was his job to investigate all aspects of the case and this was obviously one.

"What time are you going to the bar?"

"Around seven," Neal replied. He scanned the art in the room. He had so much more to go through.

"I'll be listening at the office," Peter told him. "Please warn me ahead of time if you have any other surprises in store for us."

Neal smirked to himself slightly. "Sure, Peter. Though I can confirm I have nothing planned so far."

"So far being the operative phrase with you," Peter replied, though his tone was soft. "Be careful, Neal. Please."

"I'm always careful," Neal answered, rolling his eyes. He walked back over to the table where the laptop sat. "What time do you want me to come in tomorrow?"

"Whenever you wake up," Peter responded. "We need to continue talking though. I know there's more to the story than you got to today."

"I also have a hell of a lot to do here, Peter," Neal answered, a little tersely. "In present time." There was a lot more to say but why did it matter? "And the stuff here is actually a lot more applicable to the current case than what I did ten years ago."

"It's not what you did. It's what they did. And your job is to do both, Neal," Peter replied.

"Can I get back to my job, please?" Neal rubbed a hand over his face. "I gave you the name. Isn't that why you called?"

"Yes," Peter said, sighing over the line. "I'll talk to you later. Don't forget to turn the watch on."

"Yup." Neal's tone was impatient, and he was waiting for Peter to scold him for his curtness, but it didn't come. Instead the line just went dead.

Neal stared at the phone for a minute, confirming that the call had indeed ended and then simply shrugged, returning the device to his pocket. He then turned to face the untouched art in the room and took a deep breath. "Alright, back to work…" He said out loud. He folded his arms over his chest briefly. "How many more of you are my mine?" He frowned as he gazed over at the 'Caffrey' pile in the corner of the room. That pile was an example of something he hadn't yet told Peter about.

With a sigh, he went back to work.

With a large cup of coffee, Peter sat side-by-side with Diana in the conference room later that night, listening blandly to the sounds emitted from the surveillance equipment on the table in front of them, which was recording anything picked up by Neal's watch.

"Are we going to do this every night?" Diana asked after an extended moment of no dialogue, between them or over the device. The sound of music, clinking glasses, and shaken ice was the only thing coming over the line.

"I know it's not a glamorous aspect of the job…" Peter admitted, taking a sip of hot coffee from his mug.

"I'm not complaining," Diana objected. "It's fine. I'm just wondering how many nights of this it's going to take to actually make some progress on this case. You know Hughes is jumping at the bit to get a score here."

"I know," Peter replied. He glanced out the windows of the conference room into the darkness of the sky, which still felt bright given the illumination of the urban setting's lights. "I have a feeling we'll get some updates tonight."

"How do you know?"

"I just know…" Peter leaned back in his chair, resolved to listen quietly.

After about twenty more minutes of listening, in which Neal exchanged small talk with customers, made some mixed drinks, and poured some draft beers, Diana commented again.

"He's really good at this," she said.

"Huh?" Peter glanced over at her.

She gestured her hand at the device on the table, which conveyed the sound of Neal and a stranger laughing good-naturedly. "This. The bartending thing. Talking to customers. I have to admit it. He's really good."

"He's good at everything," Peter responded sarcastically with a shrug. Except behaving, he thought to himself wryly. "Are you surprised? Playing with people is his forte."

"He's probably making a ton of tips."

"Possibly."

"Maybe we should get a share," she said with a laugh. "Not fair we get nothing to sit here and listening to him roll in the dough."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Feel free to try."

"What's the FBI policy on money CI's earn while under cover?"

Peter pressed his lips together thoughtfully. "I honestly have no idea…" he answered. "I'm sure it's in our agreement somewhere. And I'm sure he doesn't know. He was so eager to get this deal that he signed anything I put in front of him."

Several more minutes passed and they listened patiently.

Diana stifled a yawn. "I'm going to grab another cup of coffee. You need anything, Boss?"

"I'm good," Peter assured. "Thanks." He was appreciative to have the company at the office, and knew the late nights weren't a highlight for the team. He'd told Jones and Diana that during the course of the case they should trade off on who was pulling the late shift. No need to expend both of their time on the effort.

Diana had just returned to the room with her own cup of coffee when Neal's voice came clearly over the line.

"Hey, Jason," he said in a friendly tone. "Good to see you again."

Diana and Peter exchanged a look as she sat back down at the table. Peter leaned forward anxiously, resting his elbows on the surface of the table.

"Hey, Kid," responded the gruffer, deeper voice, sounding like it was approaching Neal. "I told you. I'm here most nights. I tried to call you."

"Yeah. I'm sorry. Today got crazy… I—"

"Don't care, Kid. Gimme the usual, will you?"

"Of course," Neal answered.

"And pour yourself a bit on me too," Jason answered.

Neal chuckled, the sound of ice clinking into a glass accompanying the sound. "I'm not supposed-"

"Don't tell me what you're supposed to do," Jason answered. "Julie won't mind. She knows what I say goes."

In the conference room listening, Diana raised her eyebrows. "I wonder what he means by that."

Peter responded silently with shrugged shoulders and an amused frown.

"Here you go," came Neal's voice over the line. "And for me…" He chuckled again as there was a repeated sound of ice. "A taste."

"Cheers," Jason answered.

There was the sound of glasses clinking together.

"Free tips… free top shelf…" Diana mused out loud. "Caffrey's got the life."

Peter rolled his eyes. "You mean Willy's got the life."

"Willy, yes." She laughed.

They focused all their attention on the surveillance equipment, waiting for the progression of the conversation anxiously.

"Busy night?" Jason asked.

"Not really," Neal answered. "I mean, it's a weekday. I don't really know the rhythm of this place yet."

"Believe it or not, Sunday's usually the most crowded," Jason told him. "Bunch of people drinking away their anxiety over the week ahead I guess."

Neal laughed in return. "I could see that. I'll be sure to tell Julie I want a Sunday night shift…"

"Speaking of Julie…" Jason continued, voice low but audible over the line. "Is she around? How do you think she'd feel if I had to borrow you for a few days?"

There was a notable pause, as Neal was obviously caught off guard by the statement. "Uh…" Neal answered slowly. "She's around. I think she's the office. But what do you mean? I just started this job. I can't—"

"Let me talk to her," Jason interrupted. "I'll handle it. That is, if you're interested in a _real job_ that pays a lot better than this."

"Of course," Neal affirmed.

"Thought you might be," Jason answered. "Like I told you last night, your talent's wasted here, Kid."

"If you have work, I'll gladly take it."

"I was talking to my colleague," Jason continued. "You never met him, I don't believe anyway, but he's the one that ran the show when you were helping us out before."

Peter glanced at Diana as he listened. "Wonder if he means Messier."

"Was thinking the same thing…" she said softly.

"So same type of operation?" Neal asked.

"Yes." Jason paused, perhaps taking a sip of his drink. "Though this time, we're in a bit of a bind. See we ran into some trouble recently. And it caught us very… under stocked. Which is a problem, because we've already got some big commitments and things in the pipeline. If you've still got it… Then I think you might be our lifeline."

"This is exactly what Neal predicted," Peter said under his breath. This was the argument Neal had used when pitching his desire to send Willy undercover. It was a somewhat predictable outcome, though nothing was ever a guarantee.

"Sure," Neal was responding. "I'm interested. Just let me what I need to do."

"Assume you don't mind going out of town a few days?" Jason asked.

"Of course not," Neal answered.

"Out of town," Diana echoed, shooting Peter a concerned look. "What does he mean out of town? Neal didn't even ask _where_."

Peter slowly shook his head. "I don't know about this. We need more information."

"Good. Alright, Kid, let me talk to Julie," Jason answered. "I'm sure she won't have an issue. I'll make sure of it."

"When do we start?" Neal asked.

"Tomorrow. You still have your bike?"

"Yeah," Neal affirmed.

"Good. You gave me your number last night. I'll text you address and time. Meet me there and we'll get started."

"Okay," Neal agreed.

"Those assholes at the end of the bar look like they want your attention," Jason said briskly. "We'll talk more later." He paused. "Looking forward to working with you again, Kid. And seeing your work."

"Me too," Neal responded.


	19. Chapter 19

Thank you to those leaving feedback. Really appreciate it! The constructive comments are great too. Since I have momentum going with the story editing, I decided to post another chapter within the same week. Hoping to maintain consistentcy in the story pace and characterization. Hope that's happening. Might have an early update again within the next week if things go well..

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The moment Neal walked into the office the next day, late in the morning, Peter's eyes were on him. He'd been anxiously awaiting the arrival of the younger man, intent to discuss with him the conversation with Jason from the night before as well as to rehash their other unfinished discussions. When he saw Neal walk through the office doors, he didn't even wait for his CI to approach him, even though he knew he likely would, at least eventually. He couldn't wait. Instead, he was out of his office, jogging down the stairs towards him determinedly. He noted Neal had forgone a suit that day, sticking instead to his casual Willy attire with dark jeans and a blue t-shirt. A few others in the office glanced at him briefly, taking in the new style, accustomed to his usual wardrobe of impeccable suits and ties at the office. Peter was sure he didn't mind the attention.

Neal caught sight of his handler's swift approach towards him and donned a frown. As he approached, Neal raised his hands up in a gesture of innocence, smiling slightly though the expression exuded uneasiness around the edges. "Whoa, what'd I do?" he asked, forcing a tone of jest while nervously chuckling and offering a small smirk. Before Peter could respond he said quickly, "I only went through two red lights this morning and there is _no_ way you'd know about that."

Peter frowned, shaking his head as he was once again surprised by Neal's random candor. What was with him and the way his mind worked? Sometimes there were walls up for no reason, and then sometimes there were these random confessions. "No, it's not about that." He then paused and gave Neal an admonishing look. "But don't do that. I can't get you out of traffic tickets, remember?"

"I didn't get any tickets." Neal shrugged and then ran a hand through his hair, as though trying to ensure his appearance was still in place. "Then what? What's that look on your face supposed to mean?"

There were so many things Peter wanted to say, and he struggled with where to start. There was the unfinished business of understanding Neal's past, with the baseline from a conversation that left more questions than answers, including what he had done with Jason those years ago, but then there was also the more urgent discussion of what needed to happen next in the case. All of this paired with the fact that their partnership had experienced some rocky moments over the past few days.

He tried to start on the right tone, ensuring he kept his own demeanor and approach in line to make sure they got to all, or at least most, of it without interruption or unnecessary drama. Patience, El's voice reminded in his head.

"You did good last night, Neal," Peter began, initially trying to appease his CI's concern, which was still visible on his face. He knew starting with praise would help. Neal responded well to praise. Peter often forgot that despite it being so simple. "Very good actually. We need to talk more about that discussion with Jason."

Neal smiled widely then, anxiety washing from his expression, clearly proud of the development in the case that he had driven. "Perfection, right?"

"Perfection? I'm not sure, Neal," Peter answered slowly, candidly. He didn't want to burst Neal's bubble or his confidence, or more importantly his trust, but there was a plan they needed to discuss and orchestrate which likely wasn't as black and white as what Neal had in mind. Neal was probably ready to simply pack a bag and follow Jason wherever he pointed. But it wasn't that easy. And somehow they needed to discuss that without a fight. Peter gestured to him to follow as he said, "Come to my office."

"Why?"

"Just come, Neal."

Neal's smile faltered as Peter didn't seem to share the same enthusiasm with him about the discussion that had taken place the earlier night with Jason. A little confused, he followed as Peter turned and started the walk back to his office. Why would Peter say he had done well if there was something else at play? He started to wonder if he'd said something wrong or if maybe he'd missed something from the exchange that was more obvious to a spectator. To him, it looked and felt like a natural evolution in the case with a flawless next step for them basically deliver on a platter the needed evidence to the FBI.

"What do you mean, you're not sure?" Neal objected. "How could you not be sure? I thought it went really well. We have a plan now." A beat passed without a response and he trailed in distance just steps behind the man up the stairs with a genuine frown. "Peter?"

"It did go well, Neal," Peter answered slowly, preferring to wait until he was back in his office to go into detail on the circumstances with Neal. He struggled with Neal's now apprehensive tone and tried to be delicate with his wording. "I'm not saying it didn't go well. It did. You did great." He didn't turn to look at Neal but felt his presence close behind as he returned up last stair and closed the gap to his office. "Even Diana said you're a natural."

Neal smiled. "She did?"

"Do not tell her I said that," Peter warned as he walked into his office with Neal behind him, sending him a cautioning glance. "Shut the door and sit," he told him as he rounded his desk to sit in his chair.

Neal shut the door as directed and slowly walked over to sink into one of the chairs in front of Peter's desk. "So what's next? Did you tell Hughes where we are yet?"

"No. We're discussing a later this morning… He's anxious to know, but I wanted to talk to you first."

"Why?" Neal asked. He crossed his arms low over his abdomen and gave Peter a skeptical look. Something wasn't right. "What am I missing here? Hughes will be happy, Peter. We're making progress. It's perfect."

"Perfect?" Peter sighed at the repeat of the word. "It's not, Neal. It's great progress, I'll give you that, but it's not perfect," he spoke carefully, trying to keep his tone impartial and calm as he watched Neal's expression change once again to uncertainty. "And you know why? Because it involves you going out of town to an unknown location for an unknown period of time," Peter answered. "That means we lose control of the environment. And I don't trust this guy."

Neal's expression turned exasperated. He leaned forward in his chair. "Peter, come on. This is what we all predicted would happen. They need my help." Neal frowned. "And we knew they'd need my help. That was the plan all along. We talked about this."

"We did, Neal… But out of the city? Did you ever leave the city with him before?"

"Well, no…" Neal admitted. "He gave me assignments and then I did them, and I would deliver anything he needed to where they had the office at the time. And we rode the bikes sometimes." He paused. "But we never left the city. The furthest we ever went was probably Coney Island and once maybe the Hamptons."

"So why _now_ does it involve a trip somewhere else?"

"Peter…" Neal sighed. "Messier's office got made. Remember? Of course they're not operating anything out of there anymore. Diana already told you that Messier himself is upstate. It all makes sense. They're probably trying to keep their presence off any radars, and being out of the city is a critical component of that. Why are you so surprised?"

"I'm not surprised," Peter answered stiffly. "It's just that I'm not completely comfortable yet. And I'm saying that to you openly, Neal. So we can talk about it." He hoped his frankness would lead Neal to be more open as well. Couldn't they talk as true partners? It shouldn't always have to revert back to half-truths. "We don't know enough about these guys yet. If you're heading somewhere with him, I need to be sure that I know what's going to happen."

"You don't know him, but I do," Neal answered, voice adamant. He was stubborn. "Please don't question this, Peter. Come on. This is the only option. And you _know_ it's time sensitive. So we can't sit around until you're 'comfortable'. I'm comfortable. All I need from him is an address. We risk losing them otherwise."

"You don't even know what he wants you to do, Neal."

"I can guess."

"That's enough for you?"

Neal nodded. "Yes."

"You haven't even told me the whole story from years ago," Peter answered. "We don't know if there's something we're missing. Jones doesn't even have a read on Adam yet."

Neal let out a breath of frustration. "Adam has nothing to do with this. I don't know what you want to hear, Peter. You say you want to know 'everything,' but I'm not even sure what that means. I could talk until I'm blue in the face about stuff we did ten years ago, and it's not going to help solve this case." He paused, feeling increasingly exasperated. Then he simply shook his head, resting his hands on Peter's desk. "Look, Peter, I'm going to get a text today, with a location and a time. And I'm going to be there. That's the plan."

"Neal…" Peter shook his head as well. "Listen to me. First we need to think about this, and all the options. If you go upstate, you don't have us readily available to jump in. We can be close by, but that needs to be done thoughtfully so we don't blow your cover. We need to think those sorts of details through."

"Peter, come _on_. This is like the whole discussion about me going undercover in the first place all over again. You claimed there were other options then too, remember?" Neal leaned away from the desk now, back into his chair, sighing out loud.

Peter remained patient, focused. "There are always options. And that means planning out what scenarios could play out with this. You don't just get an address and go, Neal. The FBI doesn't work that way."

"We don't have time for that, Peter."

"We do." Peter tried to keep his voice calm. He watched Neal turn impatient and resisted doing the same. The last thing he wanted was an argument. They had argued enough over the last few days, and Peter would be the first to admit that his temper had played a slight role in that. But one of them had to be the voice of reason here. "There's always time."

"Not this time," Neal answered. "Peter, look, I don't want to do this with you again." He pushed back his chair and stood. "But I don't want to lose this window. Besides, it's not your call anyway. I'm going to tell Hughes, and trust me – he's going to want me to do exactly what I just told you without wasting any more time."

At Neal's sudden movement, Peter was up from his seat immediately as well. As he stood, forcing himself to stay behind his desk, he silently cursed, realizing he should have predicted this reaction from the progression of the conversation. "Neal. We're not done. Sit."

Neal looked conflicted. He glanced towards the door behind him, and then back at Peter. "Hughes will agree with me."

"Neal…" Peter repeated, keeping his tone even while stressing his name. _Don't make me come around this desk_ , he thought to himself. "We aren't done."

Despite looking frustrated, and despite taking a few seconds to seemingly have a silent and diverged consideration of his options, Neal finally let out another sigh and dropped back into his chair disgruntledly.

And Peter felt relieved at the small victory. "Listen, Neal," he told him, slightly reproachfully as he remained standing. "You need to understand a few things."

"Like what? Because you're wrong about this, Peter, and any minute I might get a text from him," Neal responded in clear annoyance. He slouched down into his chair. "If I don't go—"

"I didn't say that," Peter answered, shaking his head firmly. He took a deep breath and then slowly walked around his desk. He moved in front of Neal and then leaned back to sit against the desk. "I didn't say you couldn't go."

Neal's brow furrowed and he pressed his lips together tightly, as though preventing the words he wanted to express from leaving his mouth. There was a little confusion on his face, as though he suddenly realized he'd potentially been arguing something unnecessarily.

Peter studied the stubborn, sullen expression on Neal's face and felt irritated himself. "Neal, listen." He softened his tone slightly. He searched for the right words to try to get Neal to see things from his perspective. "Look. I understand where you're coming from. Nailing these guys is one thing. But I need to make sure that you don't get hurt in the process."

"I won't get hurt," Neal answered insistently, though his jaw slackened slightly.

Peter sighed, crossing his own arms over his chest. "Jason is… is something. Something we don't know completely yet. He's not just an art forger, Neal. You said it yourself." He gave Neal a look. "Are you listening?" He waited for a nod and continued. "We will talk to Hughes. And yes, he's probably going to be in favor of you following Jason to wherever he wants you to go, and quickly." He watched Neal's expression as he spoke. "He wants to close this case. We all do, Neal. But we need to do this _smart_ in the situation things don't go as planned. So you know what to do."

Neal nodded, eyes downcast, not responding. He continued to look frustrated. "So I can go," he said simply.

"We're talking about that. Don't jump ahead," Peter told him.

"So keep talking," Neal answered impatiently. He glanced up at Peter briefly and then back down at his hands in his lap.

"And you need to check yourself," Peter continued. He moved his foot to gently but directly knock into Neal's, the physical contact forcing Neal to look up at him again. "You can't just say 'no' and storm out of my office every time you don't like the way the conversation goes. This isn't the first time. It doesn't work that way. You're not a child."

Neal rolled his eyes, gaze shifting to the door. "I didn't storm out."

"You wanted to."

Neal shrugged. "I didn't."

"Threatening to go over my head to Hughes?" Peter raised his eyebrows. He nudged at Neal's foot again with his own. "Didn't we talk about you and ultimatums? Is talking about it not enough?"

Neal didn't answer for a moment. But after he paused, he finally looked up and made solid eye contact as he said, "But, Peter, sometimes you're wrong." As Neal told him this, his voice was a little tentative. "I'm not going to agree when you're wrong."

"So then talk to me like an adult if you think I'm wrong," Peter answered back, feeling aggravated himself at the accusation but remaining composed. "And tell me that's how you feel. Don't just walk away."

Neal looked unimpressed at the advice and simply rolled his eyes once more.

Rolling eyes drove Peter crazy. He wanted to reach over and smack him for it, but instead he tried to be a more patient person. He had rolled his own eyes plenty of times at Neal's age. "You're thinking something," he said instead. "Say it."

Neal looked up and then frowned. "Well, if I try to disagree, you usually just interrupt me," he pointed out. Eyes darted back to the floor.

Peter just sighed and realized that this was probably true though he was reluctant to admit it. But in the spirit of openness with Neal, he relented. "Alright. I will work on that," he said stiffly.

"Yeah, right," Neal mumbled. He fidgeted slightly and then slowly looked up at Peter once more. "So at the risk of jumping ahead again, do you agree I can go? With Jason?"

Peter set his jaw, hesitating just slightly before answering. He knew Hughes would give the green light. Hughes wanted the case. But Peter was thinking beyond the case. He was thinking of Neal himself. Neal, who wasn't a real agent. Wasn't trained. Lacked impulse control. Didn't know how to properly defend himself. Was easily distracted by shiny objects. Was more human than he realized.

"Peter?" Neal persisted.

Peter put an end to his private contemplations and decided to be more tactical. "I don't disagree, Neal… But you've got to think things through, like I said," he started slowly. He scrutinized his CI carefully, realizing his vague wording was somewhat Caffrey-esque. 'Don't disagree?' he thought over his own words disdainfully. He persisted with the conversation. "You didn't finish telling me the full story yesterday. And before you start—" he raised a hand to silence the younger man as he saw his mouth begin to open, clearly ready to object, and he shook his head gently, "— you're right that while it's all relevant, it might not all be helpful to the current case at hand and our time is limited."

"All relevant?" Neal echoed sarcastically. He then silenced himself as he caught Peter's warning look. "Fine, fine…"

"So with that said, Neal, I need you to tell me what you think _would_ help the case. And tell me that part on record."

Neal looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I'm not asking you to tell me _everything_ you remember from then," Peter continued. "Eventually, yes. But you're right that the clock is ticking. So I do need to know if there's anything we didn't get to yesterday that I should know about. Anything we should look into."

"There's some names," Neal admitted.

Peter nodded, responding, "Good," with some forced gentleness in his tone. In the back of his mind he couldn't help but think, _What the hell do you mean you have names to give that you haven't already given..?_

"Just some other aliases," Neal continued. "That probably make sense to look into." He paused, looking at Peter and reading his expression. He realized from that look that his handler's patience was likely waning and he should keep talking. "Uh, so Messier… I know he's going by that surname with the first name Graham nowadays, but when I worked for Jason, his boss's name was Ray Desmond."

"Ray Desmond," Peter repeated.

"Yeah." Neal nodded. "So I don't know if that was an old alias or a different guy… I never met him in person before. Which I already told you." He paused. "But I did talk to him on the phone back then and… And the voice is pretty similar. I'm pretty sure it's the same guy."

"Alright. We'll look into that name. What else?"

"Jason's name wasn't McDonald. I already told you that too. But I never gave you his other name. It was Hilks. Jason Hilks."

Peter nodded, frowning briefly. He felt like there as a whole web of a prior backstory that he was just getting fragments of at the moment. And he was relieved Neal was offering it, somewhat willingly, but also knew Neal was looking to ensure he could maintain and progress in the undercover role without barriers. Neal approached life based on a give and take mentality. He was giving because he wanted to in return get his own way on the case. That incentive made Peter a little wary.

"And their office," Neal continued. "Before they left the city, they had a gallery in Chelsea. It was between tenth and eleventh. That's where I used to deliver things to back then. Messier, or Ray— he was never there. I always met Jason. I can write down the address."

"You can write down all of it." Peter pushed himself up from his position on his desk and returned to behind it briefly to pull off a piece of note paper from an open pad and to grab a pen. He then circled back around the furniture and handed the materials to Neal.

Neal readily took the paper and pen and shifted his chair forward, leaning over to use the desk as a writing surface.

Peter watched him neatly write out the prior aliases and then the address of the office in Chelsea.

"You couldn't have mentioned these things before?" Peter asked, trying to keep his tone neutral while feeling anything but. He stared at the top of Neal's head as the man wrote.

Neal finished writing and then slowly gazed up at Peter, eyes deep blue and reflective. Peter suddenly found it hard to feel angry at the look he received. Neal's expression seemed conflicted; on one hand, he seemed perplexed by Peter's question, but then on the other hand he looked a little frustrated though not necessarily at Peter. And then Neal spoke slowly, earnestly. "Peter, when we first went on the stakeout at Messier's… Honestly I had no idea that I'd have this connection to the case. No one had told me anything about why the Cyber unit was buzzing all over the place, and the names in the case file didn't resonate with me. Honestly, when we first started I was bored out of my mind before–"

"Don't remind me…" Peter muttered. "And you've said 'honestly' twice. Having to preface your statement with that—"

"Come on." Neal rolled his eyes just slightly. At Peter's quiet, he continued. "It wasn't until certain pieces started to fall into place – like realizing the case sounded familiar when I had the case file in the van, and then when I talked to Messier and heard his voice– that it started to all come together, and I realized… And by then…" He shrugged.

"You didn't want to compromise being on the case," Peter finished. "So you felt it was a safer bet to just not say anything."

Neal frowned, brow furrowing. "Yeah, I guess."

"You can talk to me, you know," Peter told him.

Neal looked back at the piece of paper with his handwriting on it, not answering.

"Neal, I mean it." Peter's tone was emphatic.

"But you were mad."

"I was because you didn't tell me right away. That's my point. You need to tell me these things. We've talked about this. You can't calculate reasons for using an alias and not tell me why."

Neal looked up then, his face somewhat passive but it was obvious he was masking a look of skepticism. And he was fairly successful in doing so, but Peter could still pick up on the hint of the expression. "I know, Peter," he said regardless with forced sincerity.

Peter rolled his own eyes just slightly, but internally realized he had to figure out whatever he was doing to make Neal think otherwise. He'd have to work on that too. Lack of patience was likely the key trigger, which El had reminded him incessantly. He couldn't help it at times. Neal's behavior drove him crazy. But he realized that behavior wouldn't change unless addressed the right way.

With the brief moment of silence, Neal just raised his eyebrows, obviously thinking more than what he was verbalizing, and then picked up the piece of paper and handed it over to Peter. "When do you want to talk to Hughes?" He seemed anxious to move the conversation along to be less personal and more on the case.

Peter accepted the piece of paper, glancing over the handwriting on the page briefly before he then folded it, intending to hand it off to either Diana or Jones as soon as he had a chance. He glanced at his watch. "He wanted to meet in fifteen."

Neal nodded.

Peter thought for a moment and then slowly moved to take the seat next to Neal, staring with him across the desk at the empty chair that he would normally occupy. He tried to plan his next words carefully. "Neal, listen… When was the last time you were out of the city?"

Neal let out a small laugh, sounding almost surprised at the question. "The city?" he echoed. "Peter, most of the city itself isn't even in my radius. What kind of question is that? You know my whereabouts probably better than I do."

 _Exactly_ , Peter thought to himself. He recalled limited exceptions of occasions Neal made it outside of his radius, normally accompanied by Peter himself, or El, or on rare exceptions someone else. He could count on one hand those incidences. And those instances were all pre-planned, approved, and cleared. They were signed off on with specific intent and rationale. And while this would be signed off on as well, it would be different.

"What does that matter anyway?" Neal persisted as Peter didn't immediately comment. "You know I can't leave the city when I want."

"I'm just curious how you feel about that," Peter mused. "Now that you will be leaving."

"How I _feel_ ," Neal echoed. His tone was a little sarcastic and impatient. Peter rarely wanted to discuss feelings. He felt there had to be an ulterior motive in this line of questioning. "Is this some sort of trick question? I mean, how do you _think_ I feel about that? You know how I feel about the radius."

"No trick question." Peter sighed. "Neal, I don't mean this as a commentary on your radius itself," he said, omitting his desired additional remark that it was a generous radius. "Which I don't need to remind you is an alternative to prison."

"Then what?" Neal shifted in his chair, turning to look at Peter directly as his mind shifted from possibility to possibility in terms of what Peter's questions might be insinuating. Then his mind landed on one position and stuck there. "You don't trust me," he stated, settling on that probable angle as the cause of Peter's odd comments. "Let me guess. You think I'm going to take off or something once I'm upstate with Jason? Is that where you're going with this?"

"No," Peter objected. "Not at all, Neal." He internally groaned at the comment from Neal. They did not have time to go down the rabbit hole of this conversation. His concern had been somewhat around the newfound freedom aspect, yes, but much more attributed to the safety of Neal outside of the city and his ability to contact them rather than his flight risk status.

"You do think that."

"If I thought that, Neal, I wouldn't even be entertaining the idea of you going anywhere with Jason," Peter answered, tone crisp. "If I thought that, I'd have you back on anklet."

Neal internally admitted that was probably true. When the case had first started, he'd almost expected an off and on- again scenario with the anklet that allowed it off only when absolutely needed. The fact it had been removed the moment he'd gone undercover and not spoken about since was somewhat of a surprise but a relief.

"So what, then?" Neal answered.

"I'm not saying you're planning to do anything, or go anywhere else," Peter persisted, "but I know it's going to cross your mind."

Neal narrowed his eyes slightly. What was Peter getting at?

"But I trust you'll do the right thing," Peter continued.

"I'm not going to use the case as a reason to run, Peter. I wouldn't do that." Neal felt irritated at the suggested concern but tried to remain unruffled by it.

"I didn't say that you would."

"You're implying it," Neal answered. "Besides, I imagine you're going to have eyes and ears on me no matter where I go with Jason anyway."

Peter nodded slowly. "To the extent we can. But that's going to be for your safety, Neal. Not because we think you'll run."

Neal frowned. "What do you mean, to the extent you can?"

"Neal, we don't even know where you're going." He reached over and tapped the watch on Neal's wrist. "The distance on this… I'm not sure how far it goes. We're going to have to ask the team. We may need something else. I don't know. I mean we can use your cell, but in terms of audio surveillance…"

Neal could sense it in Peter's tone. Peter was apprehensive about the next stage of the case. He wasn't going to say that in such a precise way, but these questions were alluding to it. And that wasn't surprising to Neal. Peter could be a control freak. He always planned everything with these cases, and while open to suggestions and welcoming to ideas, he still incorporated it all into a broader plan, which had steps and alternatives depending on what combination of events took place. He was calculating.

And in this situation, it was difficult to calculate. Other than knowing Jason wanted to take Neal out of the city, they knew nothing else. Location, timeline, and duration were all unknown as were what other parties could be involved.

Neal wasn't a mind-reader by any means, but he picked up on Peter's thought process without much trouble. It wasn't hard to guess.

"Would be a pretty negative headline for the FBI," Neal said out loud then, forcing an exaggerated sigh. "If your CI, a convicted forger and con artist, disappeared into the night while out on a case undercover, untethered from the usual ball and chain that creates the invisible prison walls within your radar… That wouldn't look very responsible from any party's perspective."

"Neal…" Peter warned.

"That's what you're thinking, right?" Neal persisted.

"No. I'm not. My CI wouldn't do that."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Wouldn't I?"

Peter shifted his own position, moving the chair itself so he was turned more towards Neal. "Neal, just because I'm having this discussion with you doesn't mean I'm expecting you to be stupid. You just said yourself you wouldn't do something like that."

"But you keep thinking about it anyway," Neal commented. He met Peter's eye and realized the man looked quite serious. Maybe even slightly joking about the topic and the potential angle wasn't a good idea. Despite initially seeming resistant to allowing Neal to leave the city, it had evolved to reveal that Peter realized this had to be the next course of action, forcing him to be more flexible. But new doubts could redirect those feelings again towards another alternative, and quickly. So Neal added hurriedly, "But you're right. Like I said. I wouldn't do that."

He tried to imagine telling Mozzie what situation he was going to be in. He could see Mozzie's face light up, mind racing with the possibilities of escape selections available to them, all Peter's biggest fears, once Neal was out of the FBI's grasp and out on his own without detection. And he'd be right. The escape options would be numerous.

He thought back to his reverie a couple days ago, down the street from the bar just before he'd gone in undercover. About tossing the watch, getting on the bike, and just heading out of town.

"I know you wouldn't," Peter repeated out loud, like he was saying it out loud simply to convince himself of it.

Neal nodded. "I wouldn't."

"Would you think about it?" Peter asked.

Neal looked at him briefly. He then frowned and turned his attention to their shoes. He noticed his sneaker laces were nearly untied on the right foot. He focused on that. "Peter, that's not fair," he responded softly. "I don't want to answer that."

Peter ran a hand across his jaw with frustration and then nodded. "You're right," he conceded. "It's not fair. I know I'd think about it if I were you."

"I think of lots of things that I wouldn't actually do," Neal said. "Doesn't everyone? I can't turn my mind off."

"I know, Neal. I mean… Most people don't think about robbing a bank when they're in line for a teller but…" Peter trailed off. "I get it."

"Hughes will believe me too, right?"

Peter gave him a small smile. "At this point, I don't even think he's considering any of these things, Neal. Don't let that go to your head, but he wants a closed case ASAP. No matter what it means."

"But you trust me."

Peter paused and then nodded. He reached over and put his hand on Neal's knee, squeezing. "Yeah. I do. So long as you don't give me a reason not to."


	20. Chapter 20

Thanks to those still following the story and for the feedback. The comments are very motivating. Though it seems many readers DO NOT trust Neal! Haha. Can't say I blame you. We are moving along here, so I hope you continue to enjoy.

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Shortly after Neal and Peter's one-on-one discussion, the team regrouped with Hughes in the conference room. As Peter had predicted, throughout the conversation Hughes raised little concern over Neal's mission to go to a yet-to-be-disclosed location sans anklet and timeline. Instead he was pleased that the suspects had locked onto leveraging Neal as an opportunity so quickly. Potentially concern was trumped by the prospect of closing the case. As the discussion progressed, his questions focused more on the initiation of these next steps and the probability of getting additional evidence.

Peter observed his CI carefully as they all spoke, keeping his own concerns to himself for the time being. Neal's posture and expression initially were stiff and somewhat insecure when they first sat down, though well masked as usual, but then he slowly transitioned into a more relieved demeanor at the affirmative response from Hughes, becoming observably more at ease as the dialogue continued. In fact at one point, he almost seemed proud, likely because he was interpreting what he felt to be trust from the Bureau and a positive perception of his dependability and commitment. It was easy to see why. He was going to be let out into freedom and his own devices for this case.

Peter couldn't help but feel a slightly apprehensive feeling himself in the exchange as he watched. He knew that he had to take a step back and think about this as an unbiased FBI agent, so he tried to distance his emotions from the discussion, but it was hard. It was hard because he knew for a fact it wasn't necessarily that Hughes trusted anyone at all. It's just that he had stack-ranked this with other factors. It was his level of prioritization of the case and what was needed to close it versus a care for any of the other details. And those details weren't only the obedience and success of their CI while off his leash, but his safety as well.

Sitting in the conference room with his team, Hughes, and a couple agents from the Cyber team, Peter couldn't go so far as to accuse his superior, verbally or silently, of having a complete absence of concern for the safety of their CI, but he also knew there could be a natural tendency to be more results-oriented than detail-oriented in these sorts of matters when the case had so much at stake.

But Peter couldn't help but wonder if Hughes would be so singularly results-oriented if it was one of his agents going into the field in this manner, versus his CI. He didn't know.

And not knowing that made Peter's own paternal instincts over Neal kick into higher gear, feeling a surge of protectiveness, despite the fact that he would never admit to himself that it was that aspect these feelings represented.

Neal was self-assured and open to the questions he received in the briefing about the next steps. He was completely transparent in what he expected Jason would ask him to do, which he was pretty confident would entail certain forgeries of either paintings, certificates of authenticity, or both.

"And how long would a painting take…?" slowly asked on of the agents from Cyber, a middle-aged, red-headed man in a brown suit. He seemed curious of Neal and his role in the case.

Neal shrugged. "It depends on the painting. There are a lot of factors." He paused. "Including maturity of the piece. I mean, the older the piece, then there might be some legwork needed to actually secure the right paint and supplies to even pull it off… Because it has to pass any basic testing later on for authenticity. Last time I…" He suddenly cut himself off, pausing with a frown before then looking at Peter, who was seated in the chair next to him. "Peter."

Peter, slightly distracted, heard his name and looked up in time to catch his eye. He saw the trepidation there, resonating in the blue eyes. When he noticed this, he was caught off guard at first, his own mind working overtime in thinking through the details of the case and potential scenarios, and he wasn't completely sure what Neal was afraid of this time. Had he just remembered something else? Was there something they had missed?

"What, Neal?" Peter asked, not wanting to speculate.

"I wasn't sure what about my…" Neal trailed off again as he hesitated in articulating his question. He looked imploringly at Peter as though for guidance, also appearing like he wished Peter could either read his mind or that the room wasn't as occupied as it was. "What do they know?" he asked, voice lowered into a whisper. They were sitting close enough that most others probably didn't hear the question.

Peter felt the eyes of the others in the room looking at both him and his CI suspiciously. He now realized Neal's hesitation was around what Hughes and the other agents knew of his past involvement with the current suspects. He resisted the urge to remind Neal reprovingly that this was exactly why offering this information ahead of the case getting this far along would have been helpful and this was what happened when he wasn't forthcoming. But they were beyond that. "Assume they know everything, Neal," he said, a little more stiffly then he intended.

Neal frowned and glanced around the room briefly, making very fleeting eye contact with a few in the room as though preparing himself to be judged. "Well, I was just going to say that the last time I… I _allegedly_ did something like this…" He caught Peter's eyes again, noticing they narrowed at the use of the word 'alleged.' Squirming slightly in his seat, he then broke eye contact to instead focus on the surface of the table as he continued speaking. "Those sorts of details, like aged paint or canvas, were… Well, they were just taken care of. Like, I'd explain what I needed and the sourcing of the supplies was handled and brought to me. So I could focus on the painting itself. And the timing could vary."

The Cyber agent nodded at the explanation. "Alright. So say you've got all the supplies you need and they check out. How long then? To make a painting?"

"You don't just 'make' a painting…" Neal scoffed, rolling his eyes before giving the agent a look that could be deemed condescending. "You have to—"

"Neal," Peter interjected sharply. He then softened his tone. "Answer the question," he directed, sensing the start of a rambling and theoretical explanation of the virtuosity of creating a piece of art for which no one in the room would have patience or appreciation.

"How long it takes depends," Neal answered, heeding Peter's advice after a slight pause. He ran a hand through his hair distractedly. "Each piece is different. Some are easier. Some are complex. Some…" He shrugged. "It depends. Every style is different."

"Can you use anything you already have?" Diana asked. "From the warehouse?"

Neal shook his head immediately in response. "No. No, we can't have them know I have any connection to that. If there's anything that would have them realize that the FBI was the source of the painting, I'd be done. For all we know there's some tell on those, some tracking, that I haven't picked up on. They could have their own system. So anything they ask for needs to be from scratch."

She nodded thoughtfully. "That's fair. And you can do that?"

"Is that a serious question? Of course I can," Neal said contemptuously with an accompanying smirk, giving her a derisive look. He then tried not to grunt as he felt Peter's foot kick him hard under the table. He glanced at the man with a frown, feeling a throb of fleeting pain on his leg from where the shoe had connected with him, but quickly defused his own reaction to the reprimand when he caught his handler's warning stare.

The Cyber agent jumped in again, ignoring the exchange. "Did he say how many pieces are needed?" he asked, directing the question at Neal.

"Not yet. He didn't even say this is exactly what they need me to do," Neal admitted. "I'm just guessing based on what I know about these guys and what was implied from my last discussion with them."

"Okay." The agent accepted the response but didn't seem pleased. "It is what it is, I suppose."

"Agent Dawes," Diana chimed in again, giving the Cyber agent a curious look. "What are you trying to get at here?"

"I'm trying to figure out how long they'll need him," the agent responded with a shrug. "Based on what your boy is saying… This could be a long assignment."

Peter and Neal exchanged a look. Peter's was more of a frown, while Neal's was a bit more neutral on the surface. Behind that neutral expression, however, his eyes gave way to a similarly troubled look.

* * *

Towards the end of the briefing, Neal found himself incessantly checking his phone. He still hadn't gotten a message from Jason, and didn't know when to expect one. It made him a little anxious, because he still didn't know where he'd be going or when or for how long. Jason had said they'd start today, but when? He also realized he hadn't really caught Mozzie up to speed on where they were with the case. He now wondered if doing so was wise. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear Mozzie's sermon about how Neal should use this opportunity to his advantage. That was an obvious angle his friend would try to convince him of once he heard of Neal's approved and somewhat unregulated fieldtrip.

Dismissing that inevitable, eventual attempt from his friend to influence him into giving up everything he had earned with the FBI, when the briefing ended, he was intending to head back over to the warehouse once they cleared the conference room. He had to at least continue with that aspect of the case and make some headway while he waited to hear back from Jason.

Before he could make it far, Peter caught up with him just before he headed back down the stairs to the bullpen.

"Hey," Peter started. "You going back to Queens?"

"Yeah," Neal confirmed, as he halted his movement, looking back at his handler warily. He felt an uneasy pang of déjà vu. The last few days, getting pulled aside by Peter after leaving the conference room hadn't been the most pleasant experience. "That okay?" He was worried Peter might suddenly have a change of heart, even despite Hughes support of the plan. The briefing had gone over a lot of details, and had discussed a lot of potential surveillance opportunities once Neal left the city. They also discussed enlisting the help of local PD where necessary. But there were still a lot of unanswered questions, and potential circumstances, and he knew that bothered the older man.

"You want to talk about anything from in there?" Peter asked him, ignoring the question at first and gesturing towards the conference room they'd just exited.

"No…" Neal answered slowly, debating testing whether there was a trick question embedded in the offer. "I think I should spend some time at the warehouse."

Peter studied him for a moment and then nodded. "Yeah. That's fine. Just come over after," Peter told him.

"Come over?" Neal raised his eyebrows questionably. "To your place?"

"Yes. Dinner," Peter responded calmly to the inquiring look.

"But—"

"Listen. If you hear from him in the meantime, let me know," Peter answered, reading the concern and hesitation on Neal's face easily and brushing it off. "But otherwise, come over. We can do on the early side in case you do have to make it to the bar later. El will appreciate it. It's been a while."

Neal made a face briefly but then slowly acquiesced with a nod. "Okay." He wasn't sure what Peter's motive was, but it wasn't missed on him that the invitation was directed to him as an instruction, not as an optional invite. He frequently had dinner with the Burkes, so he tried not to read into it. It was just that usually Peter asked if he _wanted_ to come over, or Neal chose to insert himself into their home environment. Peter rarely ordered him over, and usually when he did it meant Neal was in trouble.

"Good," Peter responded as the agreement, apparently unaware of Neal's apprehension.

Neal couldn't read anything unusual from Peter's tone, and he didn't want to ask if there was anything specific Peter wanted to address at home. He liked being at the Burkes. Just not when he was in trouble. But Peter didn't seem angry about anything, for once. So he tried to keep the sentiment light-hearted. "Dinner is on one condition though, Peter," he added, giving the man a serious look. "No meatloaf. No offense to El but –"

"But stop right there," Peter answered, shaking his head, holding up his hand to halt the objection. "If you want to offer menu suggestions to my wife, you're more than welcome to do that, Neal," he said, "but I'm not getting involved. If you were smart and had any sense of self-preservation, you'd eat the meatloaf."

"So it might be meatloaf?" Neal frowned. He'd only been kidding on the topic but now felt incredibly disappointed at the possibility.

"Kid, I've got no idea." Peter rolled his eyes, smirking slightly. "Just come over, and we'll find out."

"Fine. I'll come over. Worst case, Satchmo loves the meatloaf anyway," Neal answered, muttering the last bit under his breath.

Peter's brow furrowed. "Neal. Have you fed him from the table?"

Neal couldn't help but give a small smile. "I plead the fifth. But I've seen you do it."

"Forget it." Peter shook his head dismissively with a chuckle. "Come over at five."

"I will," Neal agreed, though his tone was still slightly reluctant. He glanced up as he noticed Diana approaching them and then gave Peter a brief look. "I gotta go. I'll see you then."

Peter nodded, saying nothing else as Neal then headed swiftly for the stairs, blending into the flow of agents below. He turned to meet Diana, who had a skeptical look on her face.

"You're good with this?" she asked, jutting her chin towards the bullpen, inevitably at Neal, while crossing her arms over her chest.

"The plan we just discussed? I wouldn't say that…" Peter admitted slowly. "Not at all. In fact I'd actually say I don't feel like I have much of a choice in the matter…"

"I could see that," she responded, pausing thoughtfully. "But you trust him?"

Peter didn't miss a beat. "Neal or Jason?"

"Both of them."

"Jason? Absolutely not," Peter said tensely. "And Neal? Honestly? Well… The jury's still out on Neal. But despite the secrets these last few days… I know he really wants to help close the case. I'm sure of that." He paused. "He's entirely focused on that."

"Sure he is. But no anklet. No partner. Out of the city. No clear MO… I know none of this seemed to bother Hughes, but –"

"I know, Diana," Peter answered brusquely, interrupting before she could speak further. He didn't want to hear any more in an effort to protect his own insecurities from growing. "Trust me, I know." He thought back on how the younger man couldn't even follow instructions to get back to the van while on a surveillance run. How, even further, he blatantly ignored orders not to enter the building. How a couple days later he was told not to proceed with an undercover mission given his confession about an undisclosed connection yet continued anyway… A few other examples lingered in his thoughts and he tried to turn off that thought process completely before he completely changed his mind.

"He's your CI." She shrugged. "Your headache. You know him best." She paused. "It's up to you. Just let me know what I can do to help."

"Would you trust him?" Peter asked, interested in her perspective. His agents generally worked well with Neal at this point, thought they had their moments occasionally, which often reminded Peter more of rivaling, unruly siblings bickering than true adversaries, though it had come a long way from the rockiness of their initial interactions. At this point of the relationships, he often let them work it out themselves versus his initial overprotectiveness over Neal. He knew Jones and Diana ultimately had the CI's back.

"I'd hate to say I _don't_ trust him," Diana said slowly, voice tentative. "But…" She shrugged, completely candid. "Boss, I've seen him give in to temptation a little too often. With a lot less at stake than this."

Peter took a deep breath and exhaled. He knew what she meant. In the current situation, his temptation wasn't just shiny. It was freedom.

"He'll be fine," he told Diana affirmatively despite these thoughts. He said it moreso for himself than for her. "We've talked. He and I are on the same page. If you think about it, he's been off his anklet this whole time already."

"I know. And I'm one hundred percent behind your decision," Diana answered supportively and without hesitation. "And I'm not just saying that. You know I'd tell you if I was worried he wouldn't pull through. I think he can. He's capable to. I'm just…" She shrugged again. "I don't know, Boss. It's a little nerve-wracking."

"I know," Peter agreed. "I appreciate your honesty, Diana. I do. I… I feel the same way. But I trust him."

"I know you do. Keep me posted," she said, giving him a sincere look.

"I will."

* * *

"So let me get this straight…" El started slowly, sending a fleeting glance her husband's way as she stirred a pot on the stove of their kitchen. "You don't trust him, you'll have no way of tracking him, or even possibly communicating with him, and yet you gave him the green light to go free by himself to a location of unknown distance from here? Did I get all that right?"

"Go free?" Peter pressed his lips together as his brow furrowed, reaching for his glass of wine as he stood at their island counter, staring at the simple bowl of salad he had just finished making, his contribution to the dinner that evening. Dinner at home, which should be relaxing, illustrated by the daytime suit now replaced with jeans and a sweater, felt anything but relaxed. "Interesting wording, honey. To let him go free. But I didn't say I didn't trust him."

"Not in so many words," she answered knowingly. "But it's pretty obvious in every other comment you've made."

"I _want_ to trust him," Peter responded. "If that counts."

"It does… But we _want_ lots of things…" she answered skeptically.

"Diana was a bit concerned," Peter admitted with a frown, thinking back on their discussion at the office. "Not opposed to him going out there, conceptually at least, but concerned overall."

"Well, with good reason given what you've told me. I'm actually surprised you gave him the okay."

"I don't have much of a choice here…" Peter took another sip of wine and then shook his head slowly. "Hughes wants this case closed yesterday and this is a great lead, putting aside the other extenuating circumstances of Neal's situation… We have no other levers right now…. And…" He paused.

"And you didn't want to disagree and get outranked," she swiftly filled in the remaining thought in an even tone.

He shrugged and then sighed. "That probably is what would have happened," he acknowledged, with a bit of frustration at the consideration. "And a couple times now Neal has tried to play that angle, knowing that for once Hughes would actually side with him. Which is incredibly frustrating. But I also didn't want yet another argument with Neal about why I don't trust him. Those conversations get us no where, Hon. All that happens then is a lot of emotion. Directed at me."

She shook her head, frowning at the bubbling deep red contents of her stirred pot, the makings of a tomato-based sauce to accompany the pasta she had boiling on another burner. "And we know how you deal with emotion," she said sarcastically.

He rolled his eyes. "Working on it…"

"And then inviting him to dinner…" She again sent him a knowing look, brows raised.

"Dinner," he repeated. "He likes dinner here." _When it's not meatloaf_ , he thought silently.

She rested the wooden spoon she stirred with over the top of the pot and then turned, crossing her arms over her chest. "You definitely have an ulterior angle here, Peter. You usually don't just invite him to dinner last minute unless something's wrong."

"I usually don't need to. Because he shows up whenever he wants to," Peter pointed out wryly. "Besides, you love feeding him."

"I do," she admitted, making a face briefly. "But you have an angle. Don't even pretend you don't. And warn me please before I get pulled into it."

After rolling his eyes, Peter gave his wife a look, amazed as always at her ability to see right through him and his motives. "Well…" He shrugged, swirling the wine in his glass as he thought through how to articulate his 'angle'. "It's been a while since he's been here for dinner, and I thought that… You know, if I reminded him of what he's got, that…"

"That he won't run away."

He shrugged again.

"And you thought that my homemade spaghetti sauce would remind him how good he has it?" She frowned. "You know, I could have planned something a lot better than pasta had you actually given me a heads up, Peter."

"It's perfect." He smiled. "And it is really good sauce."

"Thank you. But, Hon? What you think the dinner will do? Really?"

"My alternative is reminding him that I _will_ find him if he runs and threatening bodily harm followed by life in prison."

"That sounds like the start of a pleasant discussion."

"Exactly." He shrugged. "So we go with pasta instead."

She turned back to the pot on the stove. "Peter, isn't there any way to track him once he leaves the city? I know the stupid watch might not have range, but there's nothing else? It's not even him running that has me most worried. These men that you've described… How do you know he'll be safe?"

"I know," Peter acknowledged, wanting to assure Elizabeth that Neal would be completely fine, but knowing those words would be false assurance because there were no guarantees. And to pretend she wasn't smart enough to realize that was disingenuous. "We'll find a way to monitor him to some extent, El. It's not like he just leaves the city and that's it, and we hold tight. There are some ideas the team had. Has to be discreet because we don't really know who will be there, or when, or where." Peter felt his own anxiety return as he thought about it. He didn't want her to realize how nervous he was himself, so he tried to ignore it.

The doorbell rang.

Peter glanced in the direction of the door briefly before looking back at his wife and continuing to speak with reassurance. "I'm thinking those options through. Don't worry. We'll also definitely have Jones or someone be in the area. He won't be alone, at least from a distance, to the extent we can help it."

Elizabeth did not look convinced or satisfied by the comment. Her eyes moved towards the direction of the front door as well. "Don't make him wait. Go let him in," she said, waving her hand towards the door distractedly. "You better hope my sauce is good tonight."

Peter smirked, moving away from the counter to cross the kitchen and quickly deliver a kiss to his wife's cheek. "It's perfect for me. With that sauce recipe, I'd never run from you, Hon."

She rolled her eyes and then reclaimed the spoon that was resting on the pot. She pointed it at Peter in mock threat. "Yeah, yeah… Enough sucking up, Mister. Go let him in."

"Yes, ma'am," he responded while chuckling. Peter took another quick sip of wine as he passed the counter, begging it to relax him, before leaving the glass behind and walking towards the front door.

In those steps, he started to think through the conversation he was planning for that evening. Was having Neal for dinner a silly idea? They invited him at least a few times a month as it was, sometimes more, so it was in no particular means unusual. Neal always seemed to enjoy it, both the company and the attention. In the back of Peter's mind, the motive for this particular invitation was exactly as he'd described to his wife. He wanted Neal to realize what was at stake here. He also wanted to be with Neal when he heard from Jason to ensure they went by a plan and not just emotion.

Mind channeling many conflicting thoughts, he reached the front entrance of his home and took a deep breath before opening the door.


	21. Chapter 21

Mind channeling many conflicting thoughts, he reached the front entrance of his home and took a deep breath before opening the door.

"Hey, Neal. Good timing," Peter greeted as he pulled open the door to his home with a smile, welcoming the younger man who stood on the front step patiently. "Meatloaf's almost ready." He looked past Neal briefly to spot the motorcycle on the street that he knew belonged to Neal. "You ride your bike here?"

Neal paused at the reception, frowning immediately and not returning the greeting. "Meatloaf?" he asked cynically. "Are you serious?"

"No. I'm kidding…" Peter responded with a chuckle and small smirk at Neal's expression and gullibility. "Wanted to see your reaction." He paused. "By the way, why'd you ring the bell when you have a key?" He felt a need to keep his interaction with Neal light-hearted where he could. He knew he'd gain nothing by reacting to his continued concern over the undercover role extending outside the city. Or rather, he'd gain an argument and a headache. He took the bottle of wine that Neal offered to him as he squashed these thoughts. If Neal thought there was any agenda here other than dinner, things would not go well.

Neal gave him a tired look in response and rolled his eyes. "Very funny, Peter. When did you become a comedian?"

"I mean, at least you're using the _front_ door this time," Peter continued, unable to help himself. "That's progress." As Neal continued to glare at him, he gestured him inside with a wave of his hand. "Come on in." As the younger man moved into the house, obviously bristling at the teasing, Peter moved to pull shut the door behind them, locking it as well. He turned in time to catch the sight of Satchmo closing the gap between him and the guest with an eager wagging tail as the dog immediately focused on showering Neal with attention.

Neal in the meanwhile went through his usual habits as he entered the home. First shrugging off his jacket and placing it on a hook near the front door. Next he immediately crouched down low to the floor, responding to the dog that had reached him, and rewarded him generous scratches behind the ear and on his belly, murmuring something for a good thirty seconds in a muffled exchange that Peter couldn't hear.

 _What the hell does he say to my dog?_ Peter wondered briefly, not for the first time. Whatever it was, Satchmo was in heaven.

Next Neal was up from his crouched position, making Peter slightly envious of his agile joints, and moving towards the kitchen, brushing dog hair off his jeans without much care. Peter followed him silently, wine bottle in hand, and watched him approach his wife.

"Hey, Neal," Elizabeth greeted with a large smile as she turned to greet him, embracing him once he reached her with a quick hug. As she stepped back, she gave him a once over and rewarded him with an approving nod. "Well, I have to say you look much better rested than the last time I saw you. That's good to see. You feel better?"

"Yes." He gave a small smile, almost bashful, and then glanced over briefly to Peter, who had returned to his spot next to the island counter and the glass of wine on it. He was putting the new bottle of wine from Neal on the counter and wasn't looking at them, so Neal turned back to El.

"I'm sorry about that morning, Elizabeth," Neal started to say slowly, tone sincere and expression apologetic. "I shouldn't have come over here. At least not like that. At that hour." He glanced behind her where he saw the pot on the stove, relieved to see it was indeed not meatloaf. "That smells good by the way."

"Thanks," she said, glancing at the stove herself. Then she fixed a solemn look at Neal. "And don't apologize for coming over here, Neal. You know the door is always open for you."

"In more ways than one," Peter said sarcastically from behind them, wondering if teasing Neal about possessing a key was getting old. To him it wasn't and it was just too easy to allude to. However, he then frowned as both his wife, unaware of the matter of the key, and his CI turned to look at him. The former looked confused at the statement, giving him a questioning look, while the latter looked annoyed. Peter raised his eyebrows and then innocently reached for his glass of wine, not commenting further.

El frowned briefly and then focused her attention back on Neal. "I mean it, Sweetie. There's never any harm in coming over here. I hope you know that."

"Thanks," Neal said earnestly. He then paused and made a slight face. "Though to be honest, there actually _is_ sometimes harm," he told her. As she frowned, a puzzled look on her face, he turned his back to her slightly and reached to pull up the side of his t-shirt. "See?"

El gasped as she saw the ugly bruise on the side of his back, a dark contrast to the pale and unblemished rest of his skin. "Neal! How did that happen?" she demanded, sounding concerned. She reached out to touch the discolored skin gently. "Does it hurt?"

Neal shook his head and then pulled his shirt back down as he started to explain. "No, it's fine. Peter was –"

"Peter?" El echoed, interrupting him to send a now intense glare her husband's direction. "Peter was _what_ , Neal? What did he do to you?"

Exasperated at the sudden change in topic and unspoken accusation aimed at him, Peter quickly lost interest in his wine and moved towards them, shaking his head emphatically while holding up a cautionary hand in the air as though to pause the discussion. "Hold on." As he reached them, he gave Neal a discerning scowl, eye contact intense and sharp as daggers. He then sent a more patient look his wife's way. "Hon. I didn't do that to him, and _someone_ —" he narrowed his eyes at Neal "— should watch what they said before misleading people. Because I _know_ we've talked the consequences of misleading people…"

Neal said nothing and stayed solemn, though despite the rebuke his eyes conveyed a sparkle of entertainment in seeing Peter defend himself. His amusement wasn't even muted by Peter's use of one of his least favorite words.

El looked baffled. "Then how the heck did it happen?"

"People bang into things. They bruise," Peter responded stiffly. He shot Neal a look. "Even him."

"It banged into me," Neal corrected, ignoring another glare from his handler and staring back openly with blue eyes. "Not the other way around."

" _What_ did?" El frowned further, confusion growing.

"Hon, don't burn your sauce over this ridiculous conversation," Peter warned gently. "He's fine." He watched El turn back to the stove, still frowning as she picked up her spoon to stir the sauce while peering into the pot. She moved her other hand to adjust the dial to lower the heat. With her back still to them, Peter quickly and irritably turned on Neal, stepping forward to take him by the arm, physically steering him away from his wife and towards the other side of the kitchen. "You. Enough. Set the table." He gave him a push towards the table but Neal ignored the direction and didn't move far from him.

"Is anyone going to tell me what banged into him to create that awful injury?" El asked, still focused on the stove. "Is this a state secret?"

"I'd barely call it an injury," Peter muttered, while at the same time his CI spoke in direct response to her question.

"A door," Neal offered. He then winced as Peter's hand came up to whack him on the back of the head.

Peter took hold of his arm again, gripping his elbow and pulling him closer to mutter, "What's the matter with you?" under his breath, purposefully out of hearing range from his wife.

Neal shrugged, shaking his head without providing an answer. He had, in his opinion, simply stated a fact. He stared at Peter inoffensively. This only seemed to incense Peter's glare further.

"What?" El turned to view them both, focusing first on her husband and then on Neal with even more puzzlement than before. Her husband looked increasingly annoyed while Neal simply looked uneasy. She also didn't miss the fact Peter was holding Neal by the arm.

Neal glanced warily at Peter before explaining slowly, "I got hit by the door." As Peter narrowed his eyes, he quickly added, "But it was an accident. Peter didn't know I was there when he opened it."

Peter met his puzzled wife's gaze with a sigh. "I'm not even sure why we're talking about this… He's fine," he repeated.

"I'm fine," Neal agreed as well, reacting in response to Peter squeezing his arm. He tried not to wince.

"You opened a door… into him," she repeated the facts gathered, voice monotone, and expression remaining as though she still hadn't been given an answer.

"Not my finest moment," Peter answered dryly. He glanced at Neal. "Or his." Then he gave Neal another nudge towards the table as he released his arm. "Go do what I told you," he said stiffly. "Now." As Neal begrudgingly walked away, Peter slowly moved across the room to his wife and leaned in to give her another kiss. "It was a small accident," he said in a volume only she could hear. "On an already bad morning. But I didn't touch him. He's just looking for you to baby him."

She just looked bemused as she checked on the pasta in the pot on the burner behind the sauce, scooping out a few strands to test its cooked status. "I don't think I want to ask any further," she responded, giving him a small smile. "Because I don't think I want to know. But I do think I'll take that glass of wine now."

"Coming up," he agreed, walking across the kitchen to the cabinet to get her another glass. His eyes found Neal diligently carrying plates to their table. "Neal. You want a glass of wine?"

"Uh…" Neal hesitated in his response at first as he placed the plates on the dining table. Then he nodded, "Sure. But just a little," he answered. "I've got my bike. And…" he trailed off and then looked across the room to meet Peter's eyes. "And I have no idea where I might have to go today. Or when." He paused, watching Peter reach for the wine already open on the counter. "But, Peter – open the bottle I brought." He met Peter's questioning eye. "Elizabeth will like it."

"And you know the wine my wife likes…" Peter muttered to himself, though he moved to find the wine opener to open the bottle as directed. Of course Neal did. Neal was a natural profiler of people. Pleasing people, knowing what they wanted, and giving it to them was second nature to him. It was essentially his instinct. That is how he built his status in the world to then calculate what he could get in exchange.

He felt a little guilt characterizing the man like that, so black and white, as he multi-tasked while opening the wine, glancing up occasionally to observe Neal dutifully setting their table for three without the previous reluctance. It also wasn't lost on him that Neal knew where everything was in their home to complete the task. He moved through the kitchen swiftly, knowing where plates and cutlery and glasses were kept without having to guess. Peter wondered if it was the result of their many dinners together or the fact Neal has cased this place the moment he was invited inside. Perhaps both.

He didn't want to ask.

Ten minutes later they were seated at the table and El was placing a bowl of spaghetti with a serving spoon in the center of the table.

"Hon, that looks delicious," Peter said with a smile as his wife took her seat in a chair across from Neal, beside his own position at the head at the table. "Thank you for cooking."

"Yeah, thank you," Neal added, smiling in appreciation. "Smells great."

"Sorry it's nothing fancy," she said, shrugging briefly. "If I knew you were coming sooner, Neal, I would have planned something a little bit less simple than this."

"No, this is perfect," Neal answered, shaking his head to refute her comment. "I like simple. Really, I mean it. I don't need anything special, Elizabeth."

"Oh don't be mistaken. This sauce is special," Peter answered.

"I bet it is," Neal answered with a small smile.

"Go ahead and dig in. Serve yourselves," she told them, waving her hand at the bowl to encourage them. She watched Peter reach for the serving spoon and then focused her attention on Neal. "And, Neal, tell me about this undercover role of yours… Peter's been filling me in, but I wanted to hear about it from you. I hear you're taking a trip?"

"Yeah. But, uh… I'm not exactly sure of the details, to be honest," Neal answered slowly. His eyes shifted from the spaghetti bowl to Peter, who was focused on scooping a generous portion of pasta onto his own plate. "But they want me to help them and mentioned it would be out of town. Which presents a good opportunity to get more evidence on them."

"How do you feel about that?" she asked.

Neal shrugged, feeling his leg begin to bounce out of sight beneath the table. He had a feeling when Peter had invited him for dinner that the topic of this aspect of his undercover role would probably come up. And he wasn't sure what angle they had, which made him uneasy. But then again, if that was the topic of the evening, at least it meant he wasn't in trouble for something else. He answered her slowly, "I can do it. I mean… I think I know what they want me to do. I've done it before." He took the serving spoon that Peter offered out to him, and then clarified, "I've done it for _them_ before."

"I didn't ask if you could do it, Neal," she said gently. "I asked how you _felt_ about it."

"Oh," he responded, brow furrowing slightly. Feelings. He glanced up at her briefly, and then turned his attention to the bowl of pasta, a little relieved he had a reason to avoid eye contact. "Uh, okay, I guess. I just don't know when I'm going to hear from him."

"Are you nervous?"

"Nervous?" Neal echoed incredulously. "No," he replied immediately, chuckling in response as though the concept was absurd. Of course he wasn't nervous. That's what he told himself.

At the dismissive response, Peter looked up from a forkful of pasta and studied the younger man. A confident smile and poised posture remained after he had glibly answered at the question, but Peter could see it falter a bit. The lips, while curved upwards in a self-assured smirk, seemed to waver in the expression slightly. He was far too focused on the spaghetti, slowly taking a scoopful to place it on his plate as though trying to draw out the exercise. Like it was a distraction, or a shield. Peter considered calling out Neal on downplaying how he probably really felt about the task ahead of him, but decided a slightly different tactic was probably required.

"It's okay to be nervous," he told him. "If you are."

Neal sent him a look, eyes blazing briefly, challenging him as if to say _don't go there_. Then he responded with an even tone, albeit slightly stiff. "I'm not, Peter. I told you. I've done this before."

Peter refrained from responding. He could tell Neal was feeling a little cornered. Though he wished he could be honest with them. On multiple occasions, he'd talked to Neal about sharing his feelings, rather than bottling it inside. Eventually the feelings would erupt in his behavior anyway, but that could be avoided if they just talked about it. Whether it was feeling mad about a circumstance or slighted about a decision being made. Or being afraid of something. As Peter had told him, he wasn't a mind reader.

He'd tried to explain to Neal that being unflappable a hundred percent of the time wasn't even possible. Not for a human.

 _'Maybe I'm not human,'_ Neal had responded haughtily. He then had adeptly changed the subject.

Peter and El exchanged a quick look as Neal went back to serving himself pasta.

"What's Mozzie think?" El asked him.

Peter raised his eyebrows at the question. Interesting. He hadn't thought to ask Neal that himself.

"I haven't told him," Neal answered. He offered the serving spoon to El and she accepted it.

"Really?" Peter asked, a little surprised. It usually seemed that Neal told his bizarre, long-time friend everything. "You haven't told Mozzie?"

"Isn't that what I just said?" Neal retorted tersely, shooting Peter a look.

"Neal," Peter warned reproachfully, picking up on Neal's sudden shift in mood. Neal seemed slightly edgy, as though he was preparing to be defensive. He shook his head at him warningly. "Watch your tone."

"But you're acting like you don't believe me," Neal protested. He narrowed his eyes at Peter just slightly, brow furrowing as he picked up his fork.

"No, he's not, Neal," El appeased, shaking her head gently. "He's just surprised. Don't read into it."

"Exactly," Peter responded. "I'm not questioning it, Neal. I just honestly would have thought you'd tell Mozzie."

"Why?" Neal answered flippantly. He poked the fork into the pasta. "So he and I can design a strategy to plan my escape from this agreement once I'm out there?"

Surprised and a little taken back, Peter put down his fork and sighed. He began to feeling frustrated. "Neal…"

"Well, that's what you're thinking, isn't it?" He stabbed the pasta.

"No, Neal…" Peter sent a quick glance his wife's way as he spoke. She was silent but looked concerned. He continued to speak. "And we just talked about this back at the office. In fact, we specifically addressed this. Remember?"

Neal tried to temper the defensive sensation he felt. Because Peter was right. They had talked about it. In detail. They had surprisingly been open to each other about it. Neal couldn't deny the thought of freedom potentially crossing his mind, but he wouldn't act on it. He couldn't. And Peter had to trust him from that regard. And he claimed he did.

Claimed.

Neal's leg bounced incessantly, not responding as his mind worked through their previous conversation.

El pushed her chair back quietly. "I just remembered I had parmesan cheese," she said. "In the fridge."

Peter wondered if El was stepping away from the table to give them a moment of space or whether she really had just remembered the cheese. He fixed a hard stare on Neal at the lack of response. "Neal. Did we not just talk about this?" His tone was curt. He did not want a repeat of that discussion or to start from square one. "Or did I imagine that discussion?"

"We did," Neal admitted. He poked a fork at the pasta less harshly. Maybe coming over here had been a bad idea. He wasn't in the right frame of mind. He felt distracted and that made him irritated. His attention to his phone and waiting for a sign from Jason was at an all-time high. He was hypersensitive. He was nervous about why he hadn't yet heard from the man.

Dammit. He'd just admitted he was nervous. He frowned.

"Then what?" Peter persisted. "Because I didn't invite you over here to fight with you, Neal."

Neal returned Peter's stare with a stoic look of his own. He didn't want to fight either. He realized he was unnecessarily taking out his own uncertainty on his handler. He needed to put his filter back on. "Sorry," he apologized, his own aggravation moderated by sensing the frustration from Peter. He really couldn't blame the man. He knew he was acting a little petulant. All Peter had done was express surprise at not sharing the current state of the case with Mozzie, and Neal had snapped at him in return.

"Neal, what's the matter?" Peter asked him, seemingly placated at least slightly by the apology. He gave Neal an earnest look. Sometimes he wished he was a mind reader. But there were probably things going on in Neal's mind he didn't want to know.

Neal shrugged. He ate a forkful of pasta, buying some time to delay a response by chewing and swallowing. "Nothing," was all the insight he could offer afterwards.

"Neal, come on. You just snapped at me. Are you afraid that—"

"I'm _not_ afraid," Neal objected.

"I didn't finish," Peter answered slowly, and stiffly, giving him a look. As Neal shifted uncomfortably in his chair under the stare, he continued. "Are you afraid I asked you here tonight to talk you out of it?"

"Did you?" Neal asked. He looked up as El returned to the table, placing a small bowl of grated parmesan cheese in front of them.

"No," Peter responded simply. "I didn't."

"Okay," Neal answered. "That's good. Because it wouldn't've worked."

"Don't doubt that for a minute," Peter acknowledged, studying Neal's expression. If he was uneasy about what was going to happen next, Peter wished he'd talk about it.

"I am going to tell him though," Neal said.

"Huh?" Peter frowned, reaching for the cheese. Tell who what? The comment felt like a non sequitor.

"Moz. I need to tell him what's going on. Especially if I'm leaving town," Neal said. He twirled spaghetti around his fork but left it on his plate. "Because I don't know how long I'll be gone."

"Of course," Peter answered. He sprinkled some cheese on his pasta. "Tell him anything you want." He felt nervous saying that, but at this point, he wanted to avoid Neal getting too cautious or wary. The younger man still seemed a little taciturn, though he realized not to take it personally. Plus he knew damn well Neal would tell Mozzie anything he wanted to anyway, so at least in giving him the green light to do so, he was technically avoiding Neal disobeying him.

"What if he thinks it's a bad idea?" El asked.

"It's not a bad idea," Neal answered. "It can't be because it's the only idea. We have to do this."

El sent Peter an uncertain look, but the man just shrugged. He'd already expressed his concerns to Neal and was not about to have a repeat of the conversation.

"How will you keep in touch with Peter?" El asked, shifting the topic slightly.

"My watch will tell them where I am through GPS," Neal began. "We just don't think the range on the audio surveillance will still be in tact… But I'll have my phone." He paused. "I'll have to see. I don't know when I'll need to send updates. That's step two. I need to see what they want me to do, and I also can't have it seem like I'm keeping tabs on something." While his voice expressed this calmly, his expression hinted slightly at frustration.

There was so much uncertainty here, and Peter resisted letting out the concerned sigh he felt building. Neal referred to these details as 'step two' but it was against Peter's nature to send an agent (or a CI) into the field without a communication plan.

Neal's phone started to buzz in his pocket, and he reacted in surprise, despite having been waiting impatiently for a call. He suddenly felt alarmed despite the anticipation. He reached into his pocket to withdraw it, pushing his chair back slightly as though readying himself to rise.

Peter and El exchanged a look, both uneasy. After, they quickly both focused on Neal's expression as he looked at the caller ID. Neal in the meanwhile pursed his lips and looked up at them after confirming the identity of the caller.

"It's Mozzie," he explained. He didn't wait for their response as he pushed his chair back further. "I need to talk to him." He stood.

"So talk to him," Peter responded, shrugging briefly. It crossed his mind the irony of the man calling just after they had spoken about him. It's like the odd little man had a sixth sense.

Neal paused and then gave Peter an earnest look. "I need to talk privately," he stressed.

Peter rolled his eyes and then sighed. "So talk privately. You can go upstairs, Neal."

Neal nodded, casting a quick look at El as well, before leaving the table and heading towards the Burke's stairs.

Peter watched him go and then muttered, "Privately."

"He has the right to a private conversation," El reminded, reaching for her wine glass. "Like it or not."

"Does he?" Peter mused. "I should check the CI handbook on that one…"

"Peter…" El objected, giving him a look. She sighed, dismissing the comment. "Despite what he says, Hon, he seems nervous." She then paused and glanced over to Neal's plate, where he'd definitely touched the food but it was unclear if anything other than a single bite had been eaten. "And he hasn't eaten."

Peter looked at the seemingly neglected food on Neal's plate and frowned. "The pasta's great, Hon," he told her sincerely. "Really."

El exhaled slowly. "I'm not worried about the pasta," she answered, a little unsettled. "I'm worried about this whole… situation."

"He's fine."

"Fine? And that's why he's snapping at you."

He shook his head. "El—"

"No," she interrupted, voice gentle. "Don't say it's 'fine' on account of me. He's clearly thinking about aspects of this that he's not expressing. And you… You're doing the same." Noticing her husband looked as though he wanted to interject, she continued. "And I get it. You're proceeding with this for logical reasons. It's a combination of the Bureau's best interest on this case and avoiding conflict with Neal. So that he trusts you." She sighed then repeated, "I get it."

"I wouldn't put the Bureau's best interest above his safety, El," Peter said. "And I wouldn't base my actions on creating an illusion of trust for Neal…. It's just… It's just that there's not that much information right now." He hesitated as his eyes shifted in the direction Neal had exited. "I wonder if that little misfit friend of Neal's is getting more information than I have."

"Maybe he is… But what are you going to do?" El sighed. "Follow him up there and demand to know? Tap his phone?"

"I could." He met his wife's predictable glare and gave a placating smile in return. "Hon… I won't. Was I not the one to suggest he go upstairs in the first place?"

"Good."

"I do wonder, but…" He shook her head. He only assumed Mozzie knew everything about Neal, but he didn't know for sure. Were there aspects of this case that Mozzie was aware of that Neal hadn't shared with the Bureau? He bristled at the thought but tried not to focus on it. He picked up his fork and focused on his spaghetti for a moment instead. "Thanks, Hon," he said while twirling a few strands on his fork. "I didn't know how this would go."

"Thanks?" she frowned, puzzled at the comment.

"For dinner."

"Don't thank me for that…" she said dismissively. "Just do me a favor and try to keep this case under control, will you?"

Peter stared at the red sauce of the pasta as he nodded. "Of course, Hon. I'll do my best."

Control.

He was starting to feel like he wasn't sure how much he had.

* * *

Neal paced the guest bedroom of the Burke's, phone to his ear as he patiently listened to his friend Mozzie ramble on. He ran a hand over his face in frustration, though stayed silent, torn between completing this conversation and returning downstairs to the spaghetti he'd barely gotten to touch. He hadn't realized until it was put in front of him how hungry he was.

"So let me get this straight," Moz continued, pace of his speaking accelerating with what was perhaps excitement or anxiety. "You're at the Burke's right now waiting on a phone call from a man that you don't know the full agenda of and you have a free pass from the suits to just leave town with him."

"Well, you summarized that down to pretty much brass tacks, Moz, but I guess so, yeah."

"You mean I've summarized the main fact here: the free pass."

"Moz—"

"Neal, what you've just described is existentially –"

"No, stop. C'mon, Moz… Please don't go there. I knew you'd do this." Neal continued to pace.

"Do what?" Moz responded disbelievingly. "Neal, listen to me. We've conjectured and hypothesized a million times on what it would mean for you to get freedom. _How_ to do it. To be rid of the anklet and the Bureau ball and chain once and for all. To leave this modern form of white collar servitude to –"

"Moz, I –"

"No. Listen to me, Neal. Listen good." Mozzie took a deep breath. "This is it. You're off anklet. They've admitted they can barely track you once you leave the city. They'll have no audio unless you use your phone. And you don't have to answer that. I mean… It's perfect. Hell, all you need to do is toss that goddamn watch the minute you're out of town. Even with agents in the area, you'd just vanish."

Neal paused his pacing as he reached the window. He reached out to push the blinds aside to peer out into the early evening. He shivered though he wasn't cold. "Mozzie, if Peter even knew the conversation I was having with you right now in _his_ house then—"

"Then what?" Mozzie interrupted, challenging him. "What's he going to do? Punish you? For the hundredth time, Neal, he's not your father. Why are you having dinner with them anyway?"

Neal sighed. He couldn't explain it to Mozzie. He didn't have to though, because Mozzie continued talking.

"I'll give you a burner," the man continued. "We'll pick a time and place. And –"

"What about Jason?" Neal responded, somewhat exasperated. Mozzie was jumping way ahead. "You're forgetting I have a job to do, Moz."

"A job?" Mozzie echoed. "You're not listening to me, mon frère. The minute you leave the city, your obligations to the Bureau vanish. You no longer have a job to do for them."

"Moz…" Neal resumed his pacing, running a hand through his hair.

"Don't be stupid, Neal."

Neal closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath and flashing back once again to the multiple times Moz or Peter had beseeched him not to be 'stupid' with entirely different meanings of the sentiment.

"I'm not," Neal responded slowly. "And maybe there's an angle but…" Did he really just say that? His stomach turned and he glanced towards the doorway of the bedroom. He wouldn't put it past Peter to be listening to him, ready to pounce if he said the wrong thing. Curiously, he walked slowly towards the door.

"Maybe there's an angle?" Mozzie repeated impatiently. "Neal, this whole thing is an angle! Why are you not jumping on top of this with me?"

Neal peeked out of the bedroom tentatively, looking into the hall. No Peter. He paused and could hear voices from downstairs, unable to decipher the conversation.

Peter had left him to an actual private conversation.

Of course he had.

He trusted him.

"Are you there?" Mozzie continued. "Look, when do you expect to hear from Jason?"

"I thought I would have already," Neal admitted. He glanced at his watch. The goddamn Bureau watch. "Mozzie… You have to understand. It's not that simple."

"It is. What's the matter, Neal? You don't even have to _plan_ anything here. It's literally freedom being handed to you. Don't you see that? You wouldn't be doing anything wrong."

Their definition of wrong was obviously disparate. Was this what Peter meant by semantics?

"I would be because I have a commitment," Neal told him.

"Commitment? To the feds? What about to yourself, Neal? Don't subscribe to some moral code which deep down has nothing to do with us."

Us, Neal echoed in his mind. Did Mozzie mean just the two of them or was it a broader reference? To conmen? "I have to help close this case, Moz. It's a big one. I've already put too much into it not to see it out. I promised Peter."

"So do the least you need to do close it and then sayonara… You vanish. They get their case, and you get your freedom."

Neal sighed audibly into the phone. He walked over and took a seat on the bed. "I can't." He pulled at a loose thread of the comforter distractedly.

"Why? What would happen?" Mozzie responded. "They won't catch you. We'll do it smart. And don't tell me guilt, Neal. We've talked about that. Guilt is a modern day illusion created by the masses to manipulate you into following the man."

"Moz…" Neal rolled his eyes. He couldn't keep having this discussion. Not now, not under Peter's roof. He couldn't. He was feeling conflicted. "Look I gotta go. I get what you're saying, but the situation is more complicated than that."

Mozzie sighed as well. "Complicated? Sounds pretty cut and dry to me. And I don't know what you expected me to say when you told me this, Neal. You've had your wings clipped too long. I don't know if that's tainting your perspective, but don't forget there's a whole world out there."

"I know. And I'll see it again one day."

"One day might be too late."

"I like New York."

"Sure you do. Just like you liked prison."

Neal exhaled slowly. "Love when you exaggerate, Moz. Look, I've got to go," he repeated.

"Fine." Mozzie paused. "Just tell me you'll think about it. And think hard. And once you do, and come to your senses, just give me the green light, and I'll have everything you need to start over."

"I'll think about it," Neal answered. Why not? He'd already admitted to Peter that the thought could cross his mind. But why did saying this now make his stomach feel in knots?

"Good."

With that the line went dead and a rush of thoughts went through Neal's head. He'd known Mozzie would take this stance. Mozzie appealing to him to be opportunistic at an escape prospect was like a moth to a flame. That was part of the reason he hadn't told the man until now. Because he didn't know how to resist and not have Mozzie think he was crazy.

He ran his hands over his face and then slowly lowered himself back to lie flat on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Was he crazy? Was this a chance?

Did he hate his life here so much that taking that taking that chance was worth it?

Or did freedom simply outweigh this life that was contained and controlled?

Was he so unhappy?

He tried to push those thoughts aside. Mozzie was wrong. His current situation was a temporary one. Once he served his time as CI, barring any other extenuating circumstances, he would have his freedom. He had no idea what would happen then, but it would happen. He didn't have to take advantage of an angle in this case to force that premature outcome. He could do it the right way.

Freedom.

A pang of anxiety went through him at the thought and the unknown.

What would he do once free anyway? He wouldn't be able to get an odd job again with someone like Jason. He couldn't start to conspire with Moz. Anything complicit would lead him right back to prison. If he got caught. And Peter's record for catching him was getting unfortunately commendable.

After a period of status quo in terms of home and day-to-day responsibilities, Neal would admit he'd gotten a bit… comfortable. Some of his work was enjoyable. Some wasn't but… that would always be the case. That was life.

And with Elizabeth and Peter, he had people now. He had June. He had a network here that finally didn't feel temporary.

But maybe it was temporary. Just like his CI agreement. It wouldn't last forever.

He held his phone tight in his hand, willing it to ring or vibrate. He just wanted to know what he was going to do next and when. Not knowing was driving him crazy. It was distracting him and wracking his brain with a million different thoughts of possibilities.

He hated the anxiety.

He had a feeling Mozzie would push him again. Mozzie was probably coming up with a solid argument to use next. He would remind Neal how limited he was here, how he was always restricted, refined to a two-mile radius. It impacted everything. Even simple things like going for a run, never mind actually living his life.

Going with Jason would be the furthest he'd strayed from his radius in a long time. And it was allowed.

His mind was racing. He stared at the white ceiling, not blinking until his eyes started to feel dry and he saw spots.

He stayed there, thinking, not realizing time had passed until he suddenly felt a presence next to him and the mattress beside him dipped a little as someone else sat down.

He wasn't alarmed by the sudden company, and didn't react. Not even when he felt the familiar weight of a hand on his chest, first a couple soft pats, and then just resting there.

It crossed Neal's mind that he wouldn't mind staying like that for a while. He didn't mind the silent company. Suddenly his mind raced a little less.

It wasn't until Peter spoke, a soft, "Hey," that Neal knew the moment had to end. He turned his head, suddenly realizing his eyes were closed, and opened them to look up at his handler.

"You tired?" Peter asked him, looking down at him with a frown. His hand remained pressed against Neal's chest gently.

Neal tried to interpret whether the frown was concern or disapproval. "No," he said softly.

"Then what's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing…" Peter repeated.

"That's what I said." Neal started to sit up and Peter pulled his hand back. They sat shoulder to shoulder.

"How was Mozzie?" Peter asked.

"He was as expected," Neal said vaguely. He couldn't begin to describe the conversation to Peter and didn't want to.

"Okay. Well, you've been up here thirty minutes. El thought I should check."

Neal frowned. "Was I really up here thirty minutes?" He turned his hand to view the face of the phone still gripped there and noticed the time. "Sorry, Peter. I started thinking after I talked to him. I didn't realize –"

"Hey, it's fine." Peter cut him off and reached over to squeeze his knee. "It's okay," Peter answered. "You're allowed to think. You want to talk about it?"

Neal shook his head, staring straight ahead. "No."

"Alright…" Peter allowed. "But, Neal, if you're at all nervous about going through with this… You've got to let me know."

"No," Neal repeated, shaking his head slightly. "I'm not." That's a lie, he thought glumly. To try to correct it he added, "I just don't like not knowing what's happening next."

"I get it. But you don't have to—"

"I do."

"Fine." Peter sounded skeptical.

"I can do it, Peter. I don't want to talk about not doing it." As Neal said the words adamantly, he internally acknowledged he didn't even know what 'it' was.

"Understood." Peter seemed resolved not to press the issue. "If you're done thinking, let's go downstairs." Peter leaned his weight into Neal briefly. "Before my wife thinks you hate her meatloaf _and_ her spaghetti."

Neal nodded, not reacting to the teasing. "Okay."

"It was a joke, Neal."

"I know." Neal pushed himself up from the bed. "I like the spaghetti."

Peter watched Neal move towards the door. "Neal. Listen to me for a minute."

Neal turned. He looked at Peter, who remained seated on the bed, and then sighed as the expression on the man's face. He tilted his head to the side, almost thoughtfully, and said, "Please don't change my mind, Peter."

"Kid, I'm not," Peter answered. "I'm not. I just–" He cut himself off as Neal suddenly turned his attention to his phone. The screen was lit up.

"Peter," Neal said, slightly out of breath. "It's Jason."


	22. Chapter 22

"Peter," Neal said, slightly out of breath. "It's Jason."

Peter felt his heart skip a bit.

In the announcement, Neal's previously rather well maintained walls began to crumble. His expression had remained fairly stoic over the course of the short-lived evening, refusing to reveal the true feelings behind the façade aside from brief and fleeting moments where his expression betrayed him to hint at something other than the confidence he adamantly put forth as his true demeanor.

Peter had seen through it before, but allowed it. Now, finally receiving the anticipated phone call, this was different.

Now his expression was more raw. He stared at his phone like it had deceived him, yet all along he'd been waiting for this phone call.

Peter suddenly felt ill-prepared. Should he instruct Neal to put the audio surveillance of his watch on and to put the phone on speaker? Should they record this? Would that cause him to go off-script? Why hadn't he thought of this before? They knew this phone call was coming.

Before he could give any instruction, Neal had the phone to his ear.

"This is Willy," he said into the mouthpiece, voice calm and smooth as could be. But his eyes flicked over to Peter and they were deep blue and apprehensive.

Peter forced himself to stay seated on the bed. As much as he wanted to, he felt getting up might just add more anxiety. Neal might even leave the room. So he stayed where he was, feeling disconcerted about not telling Neal to go on speakerphone. Maybe he should have. Now he could only just watch Neal's reaction and hear one side of the conversation. It wasn't that he didn't trust Neal to relay the conversation to him afterwards; it's just that he was anxious to hear it as soon as possible.

He watched as Neal started to pace the room, a behavior he'd rarely observed from his CI. He'd seen examples of nervous energy from him many times before, but it was typically much more discreet: fidgeting, tapping his foot, disassembling a pen, chewing at his thumbnail, or other small gestures. For appearance purposes, Neal normally kept his outward mannerisms under tight control. Scripted even. But this time, the object of his attention was not in the room with him. So it was only his voice he needed under control.

"I understand," Neal was saying now, slowing his movement by the window for just a moment before slowly striding back in the other direction. "I wasn't sure."

 _Wasn't sure of what?_ Peter was wondering.

"What time?" Neal asked. Then he was nodding, though Jason couldn't see that. He verbalized it seconds later. "Okay. Yeah, that works."

Neal's tone was characteristically cool. But his actions spoke a different story. He was now running a hand through his hair, scrubbing at it a bit distractedly, causing the normally gel-styled hair to become a bit tousled. Next he was rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Okay," he said into the phone again, attentive to whatever Jason was relaying to him. "Sure… Alright." He paused. "Thanks, Jason. I'll see you then."

With that, the phone call was over. Neal flipped the phone closed and then dropped his hand to his side. He stood there for a moment, silent and brooding.

Peter looked at him expectantly. "And?" he asked. "What did he say?"

Neal turned towards him, brooding expression transforming into a frown. "I've got to go," he said slowly. He glanced at his watch. "Yeah. I should go now. I've got to meet him." He took a step towards the bedroom door.

"Hey. Hold on." Now Peter rose quickly from the bed, moving towards Neal swiftly as the younger man took another step into the dooway. "Stop." Neal stopped in his tracks at the command and Peter continued. "You don't just 'go', Neal. What'd he say?"

"I've got to meet him," Neal repeated, turning again towards Peter from the doorway of the room.

"Details, Neal." Peter's brow furrowed as he stared back at his friend, just inches in front of him. "Remember, I didn't hear a thing from that conversation, other than you agreeing with him. Before you go, you've gotta give me a little more to work with. Time, place, any other details… Otherwise you're not getting anywhere near that bike."

Neal exhaled slowly, a hint of exasperation behind him. He gave Peter a look. "Eight o'clock. Grant's Tomb. That's all I know."

"Grant's Tomb?" Peter echoed. "Any significance to that?"

Neal shrugged. "Easy landmark to find...? I mean, if we're going somewhere upstate then that's right next to the West Side Highway, but—"

"Henry Hudson Parkway," Peter corrected.

Neal frowned, looking slightly puzzled for a second but dismissed it before continuing, "Whatever. Same thing. But that's a straight shot to the GW, so it's not a bad meeting point."

"That's fair. But at eight o'clock?" Peter asked. As Neal nodded, he added, "You've got time, Neal. What's the rush?"

"Because. I gotta go home, pack a small bag, and –"

"Sure. Of course. But you can do that after you finish dinner, right?"

Now Neal rolled his eyes. "Peter…" he sighed. "C'mon…"

"Fine," Peter answered with a shrug. He crossed his arms over his chest in a relaxed gesture. He felt anything but relaxed. The only thing he was sure of was that he wasn't going to let Neal just run out the door. They needed a plan, no matter what Neal thought. And he was set on preventing Neal from leaving right now with any tactic that was successful. Including a guilt trip. "Let me go tell my wife that you've got a couple hours to spare, but you have no interest in tasting the meal she cooked." He paused and then added, "Cooked specifically for you, by the way."

Neal's expression turned increasingly frustrated. He leaned back against the doorway frame and crossed his own arms over his chest. "Peter, I didn't say I had no interest. And I did taste it."

"Taste is probably an exaggeration." Peter gave him a look. He then nodded his head towards the stairs down the hall. "I'm not going to fight you. Go ahead. Go tell her."

"Don't do this," Neal protested, shaking his head. "Peter, I really need to concentrate. And I… I don't know if I can eat."

Peter studied him, wondering how much was just pure opposition because he wanted to leave versus his true nervousness. "Why not?"

"Because. I still don't know where I'm going and…" He shook his head again and then ran his hands over his face quickly before forcing himself calm and just giving Peter a deadpan gaze. "And I don't like to eat before going undercover, Peter. I… I don't want to feel queasy."

Peter resisted telling him that it was nervousness making him queasy. Not the food. "Let's go downstairs," he told Neal. "No one's going to make you eat. But you can sit for fifteen minutes, and we can talk about your plan."

Neal stared back at him, initially still expressionless, but then frowning as though he was searching for an adequate reason to object to Peter's suggestion.

"You can try to say no," Peter told him. "But it's got to be a good reason, Neal."

Neal continued to hesitate for a moment, and then glanced again at his watch, as though he hadn't just reviewed the time a couple minutes before. "Fine."

Peter gave an approving nod and then unfolded his arms to reach across and clap the younger man on the shoulder. He noted Neal looked increasingly frustrated. He ignored it, saying, "Good. Come downstairs." He walked past him through the doorway and started towards the stairs himself. He didn't turn back to check on Neal. If he needed a moment, fine, but he was pretty sure Neal would follow.

When Peter reached his dining table, El was still seated there. She gave him a searching look, expression worried. "Is he okay?" she asked in a low voice.

Peter nodded, though he wasn't sure, and took his seat back at the head of the table. A moment later, sure enough Neal returned as well, sinking down into his own seat, though it was with obvious reluctance and slight uneasiness. He kept his eyes downward, staring at the plate of food in front of him, certain to be cold after it had been neglected for half an hour. Peter and Elizabeth's own plates were half finished given the time he'd left them while upstairs.

"You okay, Sweetheart?" El asked him. "Did you talk to Mozzie?"

Neal looked up, appearing thoughtful as he nodded. He then said in a voice that sounded calm and steady, "Yes, I did. Thanks. He's up to speed." Then he paused and cleared his throat. "Unfortunately I also got another call, Elizabeth. I can only stay for another fifteen minutes or so…" He glanced at Peter before turning back to El and flashing her a confident smile. "Then what can I say – duty calls. But I appreciate dinner. I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer. But thank you so much for cooking."

"Speaking of which… This is probably cold," Peter pushed his chair back and stood up as he took a step towards Neal and reached for his plate. "Let me microwave it just for a second and—"

"Peter…. No, it's fine," Neal objected, sending Peter an imploring look. He tried to block Peter's reach. He didn't need them taking care of him. He didn't even feel hungry anymore.

"Neal." Peter pushed the obstructing hand out of his way and then gave Neal's shoulder a tight squeeze. "Stop. It'll take a minute. Just relax."

Neal sighed but didn't object as Peter took his plate and then left the table. He reached for the glass of wine in front of him and took a quick but generous sip before setting it back on the table and leaning back in his chair. He folded his arms low across his middle.

"So you know where you're meeting him?" El asked.

Neal nodded. "Yeah, later tonight. I have a time and a place. That's all I know though."

She tried not to frown.

He sensed her worry and quickly tried to appease her. "It's fine. Like I said before, I've done this for them before, Elizabeth. I'll be able to get all the evidence the FBI needs quickly, and then I'll be back and the case will be closed." He smiled. "Another one for the books."

"Uh-huh," she said with a slow nod.

"Honestly, I sometimes wonder what Peter's case completion record would look like without me," Neal mused.

While El gave a small smirk, Peter's voice resonated from the kitchen close by. "Don't think I can't hear you, Neal!"

"I'm allowed to speculate," Neal told El as he cast a dismissive look towards the voice of his handler. "Speculation isn't lying."

"It's not," she agreed.

In the kitchen, Peter watched the microwave timer count down the last minute of reheating the plate of pasta as he leaned against the counter and listened to his wife and CI's discussion. He was impressed but not surprised at how quickly Neal had reverted into his usual suave self-assuredness and wondered how much energy that took. Upstairs he'd been more natural, and his uneasiness had shown through, all while attempting to say he felt otherwise. Now, it was walls up again. And while initially Peter's gut reaction was frustration that he couldn't be more open with them, he now realized it was actually probably for the better. Neal needed to get into character and the quicker he did it, the better.

The timer beeped and Peter reacted, shaking off the thoughts, and moving to press the button to release the microwave door. When he returned to the table and put the plate in front of Neal, he noticed their conversation had shifted away from the tactical aspect of the case to the artwork he'd uncovered at the warehouse.

"Any good stuff there?" El asked, earnestly interested. "I'd actually be curious to check it out myself."

"You should. It's worth taking a look," Neal agreed, seemingly put at ease by the change in topic. His body language seemed more relaxed. "Thanks, Peter," he said when the plate reappeared in front of him. "Maybe you should take Elizabeth to the warehouse."

"Maybe," Peter said without much conviction. He was glad Neal had relaxed a bit, but they also didn't have time for casual discussion. He watched Neal glance at his watch again and sighed. "Neal, eat. And listen to me."

Neal frowned, looking up at his handler as the man returned to his own chair and took a seat, eyes focused on him. "I have ten minutes."

"Ten minutes it is," Peter acknowledged, wanting to disagree with the schedule Neal had decided on but knowing it wasn't worth it. He watched Neal pick up his fork and started to speak. "I should have told you this before, but your phone…"

Neal twirled the reheated spaghetti around his fork. "My phone," he repeated monotonously before raising the fork to his mouth.

"Delete the text message chain with me," Peter said. "And any you have with Jones, Diana, or anyone else that might smell like the Feds. Mozzie and everything else is probably cryptic enough and wiping everything would look suspicious, but at least delete the exchanges with me."

"Can you do the same?" Neal asked as he swallowed the food.

"I'm being serious, Neal."

"Me too," Neal muttered, sticking his fork back into the pasta on his plate.

"Neal," Peter said in an admonishing tone. He felt his pulse accelerate. "I mean it. Just do it."

Neal sighed and just nodded. "I will…" He lifted another forkful of spaghetti to his mouth.

"Will they look at his phone?" El asked with a frown.

"You never know." Peter shrugged. "Best protocol is to be on the cautious side. He can't have anything on him that is referring to him as Neal." He paused, thinking of another angle. "Neal." As Neal looked up from the food once again, he said, "Your wallet… You—"

"I'll only have Willy's ID and cards in it, Peter," Neal said, sending him a look. He turned another huge forkful of spaghetti around on his fork. "This isn't my first day on the job, you know."

"I know, Neal…"

Neal put a mouthful of pasta into his mouth and then said through chewing through it, "Don't you mean Willy?"

"Willy," Peter repeated with a slight sigh. He watched Neal eat quietly, resisting the urge to want to call off the whole plan. He knew he couldn't do that. "Well, Willy, let's also talk about some code words."

Neal smiled.

* * *

With a small bag secured on his bike, a jacket, and not much else, Neal waited as directed at 122nd and Riverside Drive a few minutes before eight o'clock.

Despite his denial to the Burkes about feeling nervous, that adjective basically summarized perfectly how he felt at that moment, sitting in the cool night air waiting. He shivered slightly. Being uptown and by the Hudson, the temperature was cooler than it had been back in Brooklyn. A slight breeze rustled through the trees nearby. He watched some kids skateboarding in the dim streetlight, distracting himself while also trying to remain vigilant to his surroundings.

He supposed denying his true feelings was a lie, if he was going to put a Peter angle on it, but what was the alternative? If he denied feeling nervous at dinner, then they simply moved on, and they talked about something else. That way he only had to put up with occasional, skeptical frowns in his direction silently questioning him. If he'd have admitted he felt nervous, he'd get the full court press and potentially a discussion about altering the next steps of the case or his undercover involvement altogether. He knew Peter was well-intentioned, but he couldn't have that.

And nothing Peter could say was going to eliminate this feeling anyway. In fact, it probably would have heightened it, because he knew Peter would then worry and that in itself would be another stressor.

So instead he independently managed this swirling sense of anxiety and tried to swallow it down. He waited and occasionally glanced at his watch, which had now been set to 'on', and also occasionally looked at his phone, on which all records within had been cleansed to appear 'normal' or at least non-Bureau related.

He was just reviewing his text message chain with Mozzie, realizing it was probably not at all what one would consider 'normal' but definitely not 'FBI' so perhaps that was okay, when Jason arrived. It was easy to notice the arrival considering the noise of the motorcycle.

Neal pocketed his phone as the bike pulled up beside him. Jason was in jeans and a leather jacket, wearing a serious expression. "Hey, you're on time," was the greeting as Jason quieted his bike.

"Yeah, ready to go." Neal smiled at him.

"That's good. Let's go."

* * *

Back at the FBI office, Peter sat with Jones in the conference room, attentively listening to the exchange between Neal and Jason. He was glad Neal had spent the extra time at his house, and that they'd at least planned _some_ aspects of this, but it wasn't enough. There was still an enormous amount unknown and that meant unpredictable next steps.

Beside Peter on the conference table was a laptop, screen broadcasting the latest GPS coordinates of Neal on a map.

"Where are we headed anyway?" came Neal's voice over the line. Just as scripted. Peter had tasked him with trying to identify their destination as a primary focus. If they could narrow that down, they could then talk to local agents, and if needed the local authorities, to get eyes and ears as close as possible to Neal. If it was unknown, it would continue to be a guessing game and there was more at risk. They had two agents currently stationed in an unmarked car a half a block from Grant's Tomb. They were ready to discreetly follow Neal and Jason, but it had to be done carefully.

"We're heading upstate," Jason responded to the question, a little dismissively.

"I was just wondering where," Neal persisted, gently pushing. "What's the name of the town?"

"Small place. You'll see," came the response.

"Dammit," Peter muttered, pounding a clenched fist on the table of the conference room and then leaning back hard in his chair. "He's not going to tell him."

"Probably not…" Jones agreed, picking at the plastic lid of the coffee cup in front of him. "But the agents will follow them, Peter."

"Hopefully with enough distance…" Peter responded slowly. "We can't have anything tip these guys off… If they think something's up with Neal —"

"They won't," Jones assured. "I spoke to them myself. They know to stay back, and they've done this before. Everyone knows how delicate this is."

Peter nodded, quiet.

"It'll go as planned, Peter," Jones continued, sensing his boss's unease. "He'll be fine."

"As planned?" Peter sent a skeptical look across the table at his agent and raised his eyebrows. "Jones, there isn't a plan. That's the issue. The only plan we had for him is to meet Jason at the time and place he chose. Well, check that box. We don't know what happens next."

Jones frowned. "You having second thoughts about this, Boss?"

 _Too late for that_ , Peter thought wryly. "No," he said out loud. "I'm not. I know this is the only way, and if anyone can do it, it's Neal. It's just that we're at Jason's liberty here."

"I know," Jones agreed, sighing softly. "Trust me, Boss, none of us are thrilled about that…"

The sound of the bikes revving up came through the line loudly, and both men winced slightly at the abrupt noise.

"Here they go…" Peter muttered.

* * *

Riding the bike at night, zipping between cars, cold night wind in his hair, Neal partially enjoyed the experience. It had been a long time since he'd ridden like this, and he appreciated the sense of freedom that went along with it.

However, at the same time the deep feeling of foreboding anxiety coursed through him, cutting through the adrenaline of the ride and replacing it with multilayered worry. He was bothered that he wasn't able to get Jason to tell him exactly where they were going. He was used to getting people to tell him things, but after a couple attempts at asking him, it wasn't worth pushing and potentially getting him angry. All he knew was he had to follow Jason.

And it required all his focus to follow him. Going well over the speed limit, Jason drove as though no obstacles were ahead of him. Whizzing past slower cars, crossing over the lane lines as though they'd never been painted, Neal started to hope they wouldn't get pulled over before they could even get to their destination. Fortunately traffic wasn't as heavy as it could have been and before he knew it, they were on the George Washington Bridge heading into New Jersey.

As distracted as he was by current events, it wasn't lost on Neal that he was _leaving the city_. Mozzie's voice rang in his head that _this was it._ This was a free pass out of here. As the appearance of Fort Lee and various traffic signs with names of towns on them came closer and closer into his vision, he felt a bizarre sensation of excitement and unease.

As jarring as it was, he wasn't able to focus on it because he had to focus on Jason. Jason was racing towards the end of the bridge and Neal was keen not to put too much distance between them so they wouldn't get separated. His heart was racing with this speed and the sudden movements across lanes. A flash in his mind of imagining a car changing lanes just as they were zipping between made him cringe but he powered through it and accelerated.

Jason was soaring towards the exit for the Palisades Parkway, a ride Neal hadn't taken in ages. It was scenic, there were lookout points and picnic areas, and it was beautiful in the fall. Something he hadn't been able to partake in when the season passed him by.

 _Peter would take you if you really wanted it_ , he reminded himself. And that was true, though it might take a near outburst to actually convince him. Peter wasn't cruel but he was typically quick to use requests like that to do a whole lecture on what a privilege versus a right was and how Neal had made his own decision to break the law and thereby given up those aspects of his life. All of his least favorite words got referenced in that particular lecture.

 _Focus_ , he urged himself, wind cutting through him.

The Palisades Parkway stretched out ahead of him. With a speed limit of fifty they were going well over seventy and roaring north. It was anyone's guess where they would go from here. Miles ahead would be the exit for I-87, and he figured that could at least directionally give a clue if they took that exit, though there were hundreds of options from that point. Directionally give a clue? He reconsidered. The Northway itself lent zero clues other than heading north at that point instead of a different direction. It told him nothing.

He then thought of the car he knew Peter had posted a half a block away back at the upper westside. There was no way those agents would have been able to tail them. It was impossible with a car to keep up with the agility of the motorcycles in the traffic. Peter shouldn't be surprised at that, but Neal had no doubt he would be frustrated. At least they had a GPS tracker in the phone.

A half hour into the ride, and Neal's mind was racing with the bike. Primarily he was focused on actually controlling the bike, but he was also considering multiple options for where they were going and what he had to do. He also just felt _free_ even though he was following Jason. This was his choice. Like Mozzie said, he could just go off on his own and that would be it.

He couldn't do that, wouldn't, but the thought that he could… Somehow that in itself was liberating.

He also had to remind himself that the whole reason he 'could' was because all of the FBI's trust was placed in him at the moment, to do this to solve the case. Betraying that – betraying Peter – would be unforgiveable. There would be no way to be absolved from that decision if he were to make it. And he wasn't sure he could live with that.

Mozzie would be disappointed.

Jason was a man on a mission. He never looked back, at least as far as Neal could tell, and he powered forward like there was only one thing on his mind: his destination.

The more minutes that ticked past, the more Neal wondered where they were headed. He'd gassed up before leaving, so he knew that no matter how far they went, Jason would need to stop at least at the same time he did, not after.

He knew Peter was watching and listening. He wondered how long he would.

* * *

"How long are you going to listen?" Jones asked.

Peter frowned, looking up from his folded hands across the table at his agent, who looked tired and a little distracted. He was sympathetic, as the last thirty minutes of the surveillance had simply been the roar of the motorcycle itself, without any conversation or any other details. They'd lowered the volume of the replay considerably after several minutes of the noise, and had been waiting for a change in the exchange.

"As long as I can," Peter answered slowly. What was he supposed to say? He wasn't simply letting Neal out there and then turning a blind eye.

"Which is when?" Jones persisted. "All night?"

Peter observed his agent patiently. "Maybe," he said. He understood the questioning. They hadn't truly discussed a twenty-four-seven observation. They didn't even know how long Neal would be undercover to even discuss shifts. For all they knew, it was the foreseeable future. Thinking about it that way began to make Peter feel uncomfortable.

It wasn't that Jones wasn't willing to participate…. He knew they all were. It was just the unknown aspect of it.

"Peter, I don't know where we're going," came the sudden voice over the surveillance.

Peter straightened at the sound of Neal's voice, a sudden update over the previous roar of the engines. He exchanged a quick glance with Jones. There was no way for him to respond to Neal.

"We're on the Palisades, but I don't know how north we're going," came the next breathless update.

Peter wanted to tell him to stop, and to focus. They couldn't respond so it wasn't a real conversation. And Neal really was better off keeping both hands on his bike.

"He knows we have GPS," Jones said slowly. "Why's he telling you this?"

"Just keeping contact…" Peter mused slowly. It was correct Neal had no reason to actually verbalize this to them.

"I'm getting another coffee," Jones answered. He pushed back his chair and stood. "You want anything?"

"Coffee sounds good," Peter responded.

* * *

Neal's hands hurt from gripping the handlebars of the bike. It was nearly an hour into their ride from the Grant's Tomb and he was really starting to wonder where they were going. They'd passed Bear Mountain and they were just passing Storm King, another destination he'd never made it to and doubted Peter would consider accompanying him without a fight. He tried to dismiss this thought.

Riding bikes was challenging in the sense of communication. He couldn't simply chat with Jason. He just had to follow.

The overall lack of human contact was making him anxious.

But he had no choice.

It wasn't until about ten minutes later when he noticed he realized where they might be going. But he wasn't sure it made sense.

* * *

"How accurate is the GPS?" Peter asked.

"Pretty accurate," Jones answered, stifling a yawn just slightly. "Why?"

"Just wondering how much time they have on us…" Peter answered. He frowned at the screen in front of him. "Jones, it looks like they're headed to the airport."

Jones frowned, getting up to move around the table to view the same screen as Peter. "What do you mean?"

"I mean they're literally one mile from Stewart Airport. They've stayed on local roads this whole time."

"You think they're flying somewhere?"

"I think I have no idea."


	23. Chapter 23

Thank you to those still along for this ride and especially to those who have left feedback. I really, really appreciate it!

* * *

..

* * *

"How accurate is the GPS?" Peter asked.

"Pretty accurate," Jones answered, stifling a yawn just slightly. "Why?"

"Just wondering how much time they have on us…" Peter answered. He frowned at the screen in front of him. "Jones, it looks like they're headed to the airport."

Jones frowned, getting up to move around the table to view the same screen as Peter. "What do you mean?"

"I mean they're literally one mile from Stewart Airport. They've stayed on local roads this whole time."

"You think they're flying somewhere?"

"I think I have no idea."

* * *

Neal longingly wished he had some sort of alternative way of communicating with Peter. While traveling (it felt more like racing) along the Palisades on the bike, he had made a few verbal comments into his watch, risking seconds of a single handgrip steering in order to make contact. Those small moments were the only outlet he had. He would have felt remiss if he didn't at least try to show Peter he was still with him, even if he had no way of getting a response. The one-way message itself was brief and the words were only letting Peter know he wasn't sure where he was headed, as though that wasn't already painfully obvious. He knew that the statements weren't very helpful other than showing he was willing to communicate, but in his anxious chase of Jason, he felt he had to do something.

In a rare moment, Neal briefly wished Peter could read minds.

In fact, he wished it went both ways.

Not an open reading of minds, of course not. That would land him in a lot of trouble. A controlled telepathy…

Neal had utilized many varying forms of creative communication in the past. From carrier pigeons, to unbeknownst deliverymen, to postcards, to Morse code and beyond, he'd always found a way to get his message across when needed. Now he felt like he had no tools available to him for the foreseeable future, and that was an uncomfortable reality. The cell phone he had was risky at best.

Each mile beyond the city, Neal had grown slightly more uncertain and was somewhat thankful he had no need at this stage of his undercover mission to control his facial expressions or to come up with some sort of thoughtful, calculated conversation. He had this time to think. And he desperately needed that, even if most of his thoughts were driving his anxiety.

Thinking also left some open questions. The obvious realization repeated itself that he had no idea where he was headed, for how long, and when he would speak to or see Peter again. He had no clue where he would sleep that night, never mind the next. He'd have to be careful with whom and how he texted or had phone conversations. He couldn't blow this. He had to be Willy, and Willy had no connections to the FBI. The more focused he was, the quicker he could potentially turn this case around, but timelines were vague and getting the right evidence was critical. He didn't have a plan like he normally would.

He felt a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach as he realized this could last longer than he'd mentally prepared for. Near future could be far future. Jason had vaguely said it would be 'a couple days or so,' but Neal knew there was a risk it could take longer. He wasn't sure he was ready to accept that possibility. 'Or so' didn't lend much comfort.

Meanwhile, as these thoughts flew through his head in increasing volume and frequency, it became increasingly clear to Neal that they were heading to the airport, and he resigned himself to focus on the present instead of speculations. The airport was an obvious destination now, first from the local roads and signs they were following, and then suddenly it was simply in front of them. They'd been off the highway, going local for the last portion of the trip, and he'd felt the surroundings become more rural.

As they neared the airport, Jason had slowed his speed considerably. Neal followed suit and glanced over as he caught sight of a red banner on the side of the road posting an advertisement. Norwegian Air stating that 'Europe had never been closer.'

' _Where the hell am I going…_ ' Neal mused with a slight uptick in his heart rate. He'd expected upstate and out of the city. Upstate was a vague and far-reaching concept in itself. That he'd prepared for. He'd never expected… air travel.

While apprehension was increasing, he knew he had to follow through. He couldn't turn back now. Right? Would this twist in the destination change Peter's directions? He wasn't sure, and tentatively convinced himself to continue with the plan. With the roaring engines still covering for him, he raised his wrist to his mouth briefly to state, "Peter. We're at Stewart Airport. Which I guess you can see yourself based on my coordinates, but I don't know why or if we're going somewhere…"

He paused after he finished the sentence, pensive, as though he would get a reaction or response. Some sort of guidance. But of course there wasn't any of those things and all he could do was frown, return his hand to the motorcycle handgrip, and follow Jason.

He sighed. He wasn't used to being one-sided with Peter. Whether he liked it or not, Peter always had at least a response if not directions for him. Though in this case, he wasn't sure Peter would even know how to respond. He was equally uninformed and calculating their move in real-time as they proceeded with Jason's chosen path.

So he followed Jason, blindly, and trusted that this was the only choice he had and that it was the right thing to do.

It wasn't soon after arriving at the airport perimeter that Neal found himself and Jason being allowed through a security gate, access granted after Jason exchanged words with the questioning airport agent in a booth while also handing him some sort of credentials. Within a few minutes of passing security, they were driving up to a small parking lot on the far side of the airport, far beyond the side of the airfield of commercial airliners and within view of a row of small charter planes and private jets.

It was there that Jason came to a stop, and, following suit, Neal did as well.

Jason turned his head towards Neal as his bike came up beside him and idled, almost looking expectantly at Neal like he thought he would say something or ask a question.

So without prompting, Neal spoke first. Frowning, he asked, "We flying somewhere?"

Jason responded with a small nod. "Yep. Not too far though. Apologies if I forgot to mention that detail."

Neal felt irked at the comment. This wasn't just a detail. He was pretty sure this was something Jason had purposefully left out when they had spoken about the plan. It wasn't an overlooked communication. But Jason was continuing before he could respond.

"Regardless of where we do it, this arrangement is just like before, Willy," Jason continued. "We need you to complete some things for us quickly that we can't manage without expertise like yours. But I hope you'll understand the need for us to do this under the radar. There's too much attention in the city right now."

"I understand," Neal answered slowly. He didn't really, as everything had always been 'under the radar' when he'd worked for them before in the city. Everyone was sworn to secrecy and discreetness, and those who broke that golden rule paid the price. Nothing was done out in the open. He would obviously work in confidence regardless of his location. So why did they have to go somewhere? He didn't react to Jason's reference to the 'attention' they were getting. Jason didn't know he was aware of the FBI raid of Messier's office. "So where are we going?" He knew he was frowning.

"Not far." Jason paused, studying the other man. "I know you're wondering why we couldn't do the same model as before, Kid, and why you had to leave the city. But trust me, it's better this way."

"It's okay," Neal lied. "But based on what you'd said on the phone, I only packed for a couple days." Neal gestured at his bag, secured to the luggage rack of his bike, which contained a couple t-shirts and other items. It didn't contain anything more than essentials for a short trip.

"Don't worry about it," Jason answered, shaking his head dismissively.

"But flying somewhere and working on these pieces…" Neal started, "doesn't sound like a couple days exercise. I don't know specifically what you need, but last time some of those took—"

"Hey. I said don't worry about it," Jason said, a little curtly. "Trust me."

Neal nodded, trying to erase the frustration from his face. He suddenly was feeling uneasy from several angles. One, they were about to put some sort of considerable distance between himself and Peter. There was also only so much he could do the _right_ way in that short amount of time, and if it truly was a limited exercise that they felt could take just a couple days, then why were they going through all this trouble to get far from town?

Despite the concern and confusion, he knew he had to simply go along and see what happened. Acting worried or questioning it was surely going to start to uncover the unfriendly, menacing side of Jason that he had heard rumors of in the past but not seen firsthand. He was started to sense the man's frustrations already in this brief conversation. Truth was, there was no turning back. He was here with him, and short of simply getting on his bike and hightailing it out of there, he had no choice. So he stopped questioning it and shifted gears. "So are one of these jets our ride?" he asked, nodding his head towards the charter planes.

"Yeah," Jason nodded. "Alright, c'mon. Enough chitchat. We've got places to be." He stepped back towards his bike and reached for the bag on the back, un-securing the strap that held it in place. Neal followed suit and went for his own bag, trying not to shake his head and trying to control unsuccessfully the cold sweat he felt building.

* * *

"He sounds sort of quieter than normal," Jones mused, leaning his weight on the conference room table with folded arms rested on the surface. "I'm surprised he didn't ask more questions."

"Huh?" Peter looked up from the audio equipment across the table at his agent; he'd been keenly focused on the dialogue between Jason and Neal, the exchange a respite from the long duration of the sounds of roadways and engines that they'd experienced.

"Neal," Jones explained. "He seems quieter than he usually is."

"Because he's Willy… Not Neal," Peter mused. He'd noticed it himself, in the tone of Neal's voice. It was somehow less confident than usual. And Peter wasn't sure if that was roleplaying Willy or whether Neal was perhaps truly feeling that way about the situation. In which case, it made Peter more nervous himself. He needed Neal in his full capacity. But he didn't have time to deliberate on that point, because they were in this now, and in it deep, and second-guessing moods wouldn't help any of them. "Besides, what's he supposed to say at this point? He's doing good."

"That's true…" Jones sat up a bit to reach over and take his coffee cup in hand. There was no dialogue now, just the sound of walking across a surface. The steps made it sound as though it was a hard surface, maybe asphalt.

"Where the hell could they be going…?" Peter muttered. "Maybe he shouldn't go through with this." He clenched his hands in tense aggravation.

"How are you gonna tell him that?" Jones asked.

"I obviously can't," Peter answered stiffly. "That was the limitation in this plan. The lack of communication. I told him…"

"But you agreed anyway."

"I did. And we talked about a lot of different scenarios. But none of them involved flying somewhere." Peter exhaled a deep breath, brow furrowing.

Silence passed between them and footsteps continued on the audio.

Then Jones spoke again. "What normal person would agree to cut out of work, follow this guy without any idea where, and now get on a plane?"

Peter felt himself grow a little frustrated at Jones' comments, obviously his own ponderings being spoken out loud. Sitting in a room like this for a long time did that – made you think – but you also had to stay positive. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, Jason doesn't think it's weird that Nea— I mean, Willy, just drops everything like this?" Jones asked. He then shrugged. "I've been thinking more about it. I know we thought this was a good idea, but if a stranger told me that –"

"Don't forget they're not strangers," Peter interjected. "That was the whole point of this – Neal leveraging existing relationships. If we were building the relationship, then sure, I know exactly what you're saying. But that's not the case. And we don't even know their full history. This might not feel weird for them. You say 'normal' but these aren't normal guys, Jones. They're conmen."

"I hear you," Jones admitted. He turned the coffee cup on the table in a circular motion, eyeing it with a frown.

Peter frowned himself, Jones' words causing him to sit back in his chair and think. Was Neal accepting this offer too eager of a move? Was it suspicious? He mulled it over and then resigned himself to believe it wasn't. It had all simply flowed in natural chronology. They hadn't forced anything at all. He repeated this argument to himself a few times silently before adding out loud, "You also have to remember the payoff, Jones. This is an illegal contract they have here. With a pot of gold at the end. We've seen people do much stranger things for a big payday."

"That is true." Jones nodded, raising his eyebrows upon retrospect of some key examples of that being the result of an investigation. "Very, very true."

"Weird situations like this keep us employed," Peter said.

"Are you, Agent Burke, saying you're glad there's crime so that you stay employed?" Jones asked with a smirk.

"Far from it," Peter muttered, shaking his head though with a slight chuckle. He was glad Jones was at least trying to keep the mood light, because coursing through Peter's veins was an enormous amount of worry.

There was dialogue once again initiating and they both silenced, staring once more at the equipment in front of them as though it could visually lend some sort of important clues beyond the audio.

"Nice ride… The design is beautiful in here," Neal was saying, presumably from inside some sort of private jets or charter planes.

"Can't claim it to be mine," Jason admitted in response. "Though my boss is pretty generous at times about sharing."

"You didn't have one of these back in the day," Neal answered.

"Guess we're rising up in the world," was the answer. "Maybe after this one-time experience you'll see it's worth working with us again."

"Rising up in the world," Peter echoed irritably in the room. "More like getting deeper into the underworld."

"Pretty impressive," Neal said appreciatively.

"Fortunately the ladies think so too. Have you ever been in one of these before?" Jason asked next.

"No, never…" Neal responded slowly. "But I've always wanted to see the inside of one."

"Well, here you are. Your lucky day. You sign up for a job and get to cross something off your bucket list."

Peter looked up as he heard Jones begin to chuckle. His brow furrowed. "What is it?" he asked.

Jones looked amused and met Peter's eyes. "He's saying he's never been on a plane like this, which I assume is a private jet or something," Jones explained, still smirking. As Peter continued to frown he spoke further, "Meanwhile, he's told me more than one crazy tale that states otherwise. Including one where he piloted one of these things."

"Piloted?" Peter echoed. "When did he –" He cut himself off before refusing to humor the question. "You know what? Never mind. I don't want to know." He added it to his list of questions to eventually ask Neal when the hell he had piloted a plane at some point in the future when he had him in a subdued moment. "I guess he wasn't Willy in those stories."

"Yeah, I guess not…" Jones answered sarcastically.

"How long is the flight?" Neal asked, and both Peter and Jones focused back on the equipment at that moment. This answer would give them a better indication of Neal's destination, and they anxiously awaited the response.

* * *

"It's about an hour," Jason answered Neal's question. "Let me introduce you to the pilot." He started to walk towards the plane's cockpit. "We should be able to get off the ground pretty soon."

Neal turned his head both ways as he trailed behind Jason and admired the interior of the private jet. It was very nice. Luxurious. The ceilings felt high, with both they and the walls decorated with fabric panels in a lush cream color, with an aisle separating two rows of leather armchair seats for half the aircraft as well as a section in the back that had a booth seating area with a table. He quickly counted that about ten to fourteen people could likely sit comfortably.

Part of Neal felt excited. He hadn't been on a plane in… ages. He hadn't actually traveled anywhere in a long time. He didn't count the rare time he made it across the Hudson to New Jersey with a federal babysitter for a case.

Travel was a luxury in itself. And doing it in an aircraft like this… He craved that lifestyle.

An hour… Neal thought to himself. "Are we going north?" He cautioned himself to not ask so many questions, and not to appear overly eager or nervous. But he also wanted to make sure he got enough information and gave Peter some indication of direction.

Jason seemed to either not hear him or ignore the question. Instead he kept his back turned and continued walking until he reached the front of the plane, saying, "Hey, Derek," as he knocked on the small door that separated the main cabin from the cockpit.

At the beckoning, emerging from the cockpit came a small, wiry older man, who appeared in his sixties and wore thick-framed glasses and gray hair. He was dressed simply in a khaki shirt and dark slacks. "Hey, Jay," he greeted. "You almost ready?" He glanced past him at Neal. "This your guest today?"

"It is indeed," Jason answered affirmatively. "This is Will. He's going to be doing some work for me and Graham at the house."

Neal's mind accounted for the limited details. Derek. Graham. House. It wasn't enough.

"That's great," Derek responded, giving Neal a small smile. "Well, welcome aboard. We'll be wheels up in a few minutes if you're all ready. Looks like it'll be a smooth ride. Good winds today. If you need anything just give a holler."

"We will," Jason affirmed. "Thanks."

With that, Derek the pilot disappeared back into the cockpit behind closed doors and Jason turned back to Neal. "Alright, Will. Let's settle in. It's time to start to show you what we're going to need to do."

Neal nodded and forced a small smile that was as natural as he could muster under pressure, which he knew was convincing to all but those who knew him best. Peter would never believe this smile, but Jason didn't even seem to look twice. "Let's do this."

* * *

"Get the GPS tracking back up and running," Peter said, up on his feet and now slowly walking towards the window of the conference room, feeling alert and restless with uneasy energy. He stared out through the glass at the city lights. "I need to know where they're going."

"We've had it up and running," Jones responded, a little confused by Peter's request. The man had just been staring at the GPS minutes ago. He got the sense Peter was distracted. He rose to his feet to move down the short distance of the conference room table, taking the open laptop sitting there and dragging it back across the surface of the table, bringing it closer towards where Peter was standing. He set it in front of the seat there. "Here." He studied the screen briefly. "It hasn't moved in the last ten minutes. They haven't taken off yet."

"And you think it's live to the second," Peter said. He turned from the window and started back to a seat at the table in front of the laptop.

"You asked that already," Jones reminded. "And yeah, I'm pretty sure it is. It's just like Neal's anklet, Peter."

Peter nodded. "Right." He sat back down and stared at the laptop at the blinking light on the screen. It was a common event for him to track Neal's location. When their partnership was new, he used to check all the time, especially in the evening, to El's chagrin. 'Don't you trust him?' she would ask, and he'd immediately respond, 'I want to.'

As Hughes had reminded him constantly at that point in time, as though testing or asking him to second-guess his decision to even make the arrangement, the kid was fully his responsibility from that point onward. His adherence to the rules would reflect on Peter and his career directly. Any stray, even minor, outside his radius would alert the Marshals, and it would reflect badly on Peter as well as the FBI. Any illegal activity, even worse. Peter knew he'd gone out on a limb offering the deal on his gut instinct of presumed potential in a young convict, and occasionally worried he'd ruined his career to do it. Hence the constant watching and tracking and threatening at that stage of their relationship.

What he had known about Neal at that point was a mix of facts and suspicion on paper coupled with the limited human interaction he'd had with him at the time, a combination of exchanges from investigating him, catching him, and prosecuting him. As he began to increasingly feel charmed by Neal, he'd remind himself it was an act and would distance himself. Even when he'd checked in on him while Neal served his time, it hadn't been personal. In hindsight, now knowing Neal, he regretted that. Neal was such a facet in his life now that he couldn't imagine just requesting a report on how he was doing. In fact, he couldn't imagine ever allowing him to go back to prison.

He wouldn't allow that, but not allowing that meant making damn well sure there was never a reason for Neal to go back.

Distracted, Peter glanced at his watch. It was half past nine and he looked up to catch Jones stifling a yawn. Peter himself didn't feel an ounce of fatigue. He felt on edge, like he couldn't sleep until this was resolved. He knew he couldn't pull twenty-four shifts, and they would have to be smart about this.

"Diana offered to come in pretty late if you want to change shifts," Peter offered.

Jones looked over at him and frowned, then shaking his head. "Nah, Boss, I'm good. Coffee will keep me going just fine." He sat back down in his own chair.

Jason's voice came over the audio equipment louder than before, meaning he must have been sitting close to Neal. "Here you go, Willy. This is what we'll need… Some of this might look familiar."

* * *

Sitting at the booth seating area on the jet, smooth tabletop between him and Jason, Neal looked at the large print Jason unrolled to put in front of him. It was an abstract piece, symmetrical in depiction but with contrasting colors on each side, and he recognized it immediately.

"Here's the first one we need," Jason said. "Obviously, we have only prints for you to go off of but I think most of these you're familiar with. This one—"

"Hilma af Klint," he said, glancing up at Jason curiously. "Yeah, I know it."

Jason gave a small smile. "Good. You're still the same."

"She allegedly gave all of her work to her nephew, who wasn't supposed to release it to the public for at least twenty years after her death," Neal said slowly. "It was 1,200 or more pieces. Who knows if that was the full amount."

"Exactly," Jason said. "We have the certificates of authenticity from the art historian who introduced her to the world. We'll certify this one the same way. This is committed to a buyer we have lined up in Chicago. We had one ready to go, but…" he trailed off briefly. "We had one but it was reallocated. So we need another. Quickly. It was supposed to ship this week and the buyer paid in advance."

Reallocated, Neal mused. Poor cover and awkward choice of words, but he understood Jason was reluctant to speak the truth, which was that they did have one but the FBI had it now. Neal had seen it in his review of the pieces at the warehouse. It was in his inventory. He had studied it closely, and he'd known it was fake.

"I can recreate it," Neal stated confidently. "Both the painting," he gestured to the print, "and the certificate."

"Good boy," Jason answered with a smile. "That's why we have you back." He started to carefully roll up the reprint to put it away, backing it into a cardboard tube. He leaned over to slip that tube under his seat and pulled out another one. "Here's another."

Neal watched the next print get removed from the shipping tube and then gently laid out on the table. At that point he could hear and feel the plane beginning to move. He watched the paper unroll.

As soon as the image was in front of him, he said, "Magritte."

"Yes," Jason responded. He was smiling now. "That's right."

"He was known for challenging perceptions of reality," Neal said, looking up at Jason. "This one, it's a variation of a more well-known piece of his called Son of Man. This one—"

"You got it," Jason responded, interjecting as though not caring for the details, though his tone was gentle.

"His mother committed suicide when he was young," Neal added. He looked back down at the piece again. "I like this one…. You know, the green apple was a popular motif he used over time in his works, repeating it. Some say Steve Jobs actually –"

"I don't care about the history," Jason told him, interrupting again impatiently. "I'm glad you know it, Willy, don't get me wrong. But it's the painting itself that matters. This one is going to Miami. Same story – we need it recreated and the certificate. We're under a tight timeline."

"Okay," Neal agreed slowly. "Jason… How many of these?"

"Well, our prioritized list is… fifteen or so…."

"Prioritized?"

"Yeah. As in we had deadlines, Kid. Very near deadlines before we lose credibility and money."

"But I can't do fifteen in a couple days," Neal said.

"Then let's see what you can do. That's why we're going to the house. You'll have no distractions, a lot of space, and materials at your disposal."

"But the paint… The aging of the—"

"Listen," Jason cut him off again. "We got those things covered. Whatever else you need, tell me, and we'll get it. Just like we did last time. Capeesh?"

Neal quieted though he wanted again to express that two days wasn't enough. If they needed all of this, why had they only set aside two days? Something didn't seem right. And he still didn't understand why he had to do it outside of the city.

"Here," Jason started again. "Let me show you the others. Some of these I think you might have done for us before…"

* * *

"How's he know all that?" Jones asked, as they listened to Neal immediately recognize each artist. "Like as soon as he sees it, he's spitting out all these facts."

"That's Neal…" Peter mused, though he himself was impressed. "He knows a lot more than we give him credit for sometimes."

"Did he go to school?"

"No…" Peter answered slowly. "Not officially." He pursed his lips.

"Maybe he should…"

"He'd likely know more than the professor…"

"And the certificates of authenticity?"

"Don't forget I got him on bond forgery, Jones."

"True."

They listened to Neal express his concern over a two-day timeline versus what he was being asked to do.

"He's right, it's strange," Peter said softly, thinking. "Why would they tell him they only need a couple days when this is a much bigger task?"

Jones looked equally thoughtful. "Well, they must have something in mind."

Peter's eyes shifted over to the GPS tracker. "They're heading north."

* * *

Before Neal knew it, they had landed after an uneventful flight, just under an hour in duration, during which he and Jason talked mostly about the art he was being asked to recreate as well as the supplies that had already been secured for the efforts. It had been a while since Neal had flown, and he forced yawning on take-off and landing in order to remove the pressure from his ears.

They landed at another regional, small airport and Neal looked around for clues, but only saw other similar private vehicles, ranging from size and style. He was afraid to again ask Jason where they were. He was also afraid to speak out loud any clues specifically to Peter, in case he was to seem suspicious. Peter probably knew more than him at this point. He had the GPS coordinates.

He followed Jason's gesture to accompany him towards an area of parking in the distance. It was dark and the small-sized airport was lit by high posted, broad-beamed floodlights. The night air was crisp and the air smelled somehow cleaner than it had when they'd taken off from Westchester County.

A couple minutes later, Jason had unlocked the trunk of a dark SUV and was throwing his bag into the back of the vehicle. Neal without asking did the same with his and Jason pulled down the trunk door to slam it shut before walking around the side of the car. Neal immediately took out his phone, trying to remain discreet and calm, and deftly in seconds took a quick picture of the license plate of the vehicle. It had Vermont plates. Were they in Vermont?

"You coming?" Jason asked, as he walked along the driver's side of the car, peering back towards Neal who remained behind the SUV.

"Yeah," Neal answered quickly, walking towards the passenger side of the car as he quickly, with heart pounding, kept his hands low while he texted the picture of the license plate to Peter. He then hurriedly deleted the text before then pivoting to the phone's photo album to delete the photo itself. It took seconds and after complete, he was swiftly opening the passenger door and climbing into the car, phone pocketed out of sight, dropping his backpack at his feet.

"Are we in Vermont?" he asked.

"Yes," Jason acknowledged. He glanced over at him. "The land of maple syrup and Ben and Jerry's. Ever been?"

"For skiing," Neal answered.

"How'd you guess?"

"License plate," Neal admitted.

Jason studied him then for a moment silently, expression somewhat vague, before inserting keys into the ignition and turning on the car. "We're about ten minutes from the house. Buckle up."

* * *

"So they landed in Vermont…" Jones said slowly, standing behind Peter's chair and watching the blinking red dot that had shortly ago stopped moving on the screen as quickly as before when they were in flight. "And they're now in a car heading to a house..."

"We need to call the local FBI office," Peter responded, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Burlington and Rutland. They're about an hour and a half apart. Not knowing exactly what we're dealing with here, I want them both to be aware. They'll also know best how to engage the local authorities so we have them on alert if needed."

"I'll call them now," Jones answered. "And I'll extend the case file to them."

"Thanks," Peter replied, not even turning his head as Jones left the conference room. He stared intently at the laptop screen and the red dot that represented Neal.

"We have to make one stop on the way," Jason was saying to Neal. They were in transit now, and the red dot was very slowly moving on the screen. Behind the voice was background noise of the car radio, which played soft rock.

Peter's phone buzzed in his pocket and he shifted to reach for it. Extracting it from his jeans, he flipped it open and looked at the screen, surprised to see a text from Neal. Frowning, he quickly opened it and pressed his lips together tightly for a moment as he watched the image pop up on the screen.

Then he turned his head towards the doorway of the room and shouted, "Hey, Jones! I also need you to run a plate!"

 _Good, Neal_ , he then thought, staring at the CI's name on his phone. _Very good._

* * *

It was about ten minutes later when they stopped the SUV, pulling up to a local post office, a small, brick building with a large sign in front of it sporting the recognizable sonic eagle logo and metallic lettering over the doorway that read U.S. Post Office. The car entered the empty parking lot and slowly pulled up to a spot by the entrance.

"The post office? Are they open?" Neal asked. He glanced at the car's dashboard to eye the clock. It was late. Why were they here?

"The lobby with the P.O. boxes are always open here," Jason answered, as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "Come on."

Neal unbuckled his own seatbelt as well and followed Jason out of the car, a small feeling of foreboding rising within him. This was strange.

A small bell rang as Jason opened the unlocked door of the post office. Indeed there was a small part of the lobby accessible with two rows of P.O. boxes while the majority of the room, a typical looking post office with offerings of shipping materials and envelopes which sat alongside a counter where employees would accept mail and shipments, was inaccessible with a sturdy metal slotted see-through gate rolled down, dividing the two areas.

Neal watched Jason pull out a key from his pocket, going towards one of the P.O. boxes to unlock it. He frowned and remained standing a few feet away. He had no idea what they were doing here. Was Jason picking up mail?

"Give me your phone," Jason said next. "And your watch. And anything else that is metal."

"What?" Neal's stomach turned at the request. He had not been expecting this at all. He started to inwardly panic at the request but kept his outside mannerism calm. "Why?"

"Because I told you to," Jason said stiffly. His tone had grown more impatient. The P.O. box door stood open and Jason looked at him expectantly. "Hurry up, Will."

"But I need my phone," Neal objected.

"You don't. I told you – We'll give you everything you need while you're here. You're here to work for us. You're getting paid to do it."

Neal shook his head. "But I don't understand why—"

"You're not getting paid to argue with me. Just do it." Jason looked at him with a frown and then sighed, rolling his eyes slightly. "Look, it's because at the house, we can't have it. Graham's wife… She's a bit crazy. She's afraid of cell phone radiation and electromagnetic bullshit. So we can't have it there. You'll get it back when you're done." With that he started to remove his own watch, releasing the clasp and pulling it off his wrist, reaching over to place it in the box. He then pulled a phone out of his back pocket and entered it into the box as well. "See? I have to do the same thing when I go there."

"The watch?" Neal asked, nervously glancing down at his own, the only possible point of contact he had with Peter. He was stunned at the explanation but focused on retaining his only connection to Peter. "Why? It's not like a cell phone. It's not transmitting anything." That was a lie. His was.

"It's metal," Jason explained. "She thinks all metal absorbs the radiation. Come on. Just do it."

"That's… crazy," Neal said. He was flabbergasted, and his heart pounded hard in his chest.

"Yeah, like I said. You can imagine why Graham leaves her up here in their vacation home while he lives most of the year in the city. She's a bit of a recluse. Now hurry up. If you take a second longer, I swear I'll take it off you myself."

A series of potential excuses went through Neal's mind as possible claims as to why he would have to keep his belongings. But all of them felt weak. He had a hard time clearing his mind to come up with something that would be effective. His thoughts were battling each other. How could he convince Jason he needed his watch without making him feel suspicious of it?

He couldn't.

Not only that, but he couldn't simply refuse. Jason was threatening to take the items himself. He could never physically outmatch Jason.

So slowly he resigned himself to this new stage of his undercover role and swallowed, reaching for the clasp of his watch and slowly working to remove the only lifeline he had. He felt Jason's narrowed eyes on him and tried to steady his now somewhat shaking hands.

He suddenly wished he was with Peter and not here. He wished he'd told Peter he was too worried to do this, and there was too much risk, and he had doubts as to what he could accomplish, and he should have stayed home. Peter had said it was all right to be nervous. Why hadn't he admitted he was?

But here he was. Miles and miles and miles away.

"Hurry up," Jason urged, continuing to watch him. "Give it over. You have anything metal in your bag in the car?"

"No," Neal answered, keeping his voice steady. "I don't think so. It's just clothes and stuff."

"Okay good." Jason extended his hand, palm up, waiting. Neal handed over the watch and then went to pull out his phone, handing it over as well. He watched Jason now, waiting for him to lock the only thing he had left of Peter inside metal walls.

"Good. Now we can go," Jason stated as he placed the items in the metal box next to his own and closed the door firmly. He then turned the key, locking the devices inside, before he began walking to the exit. "Come on, Will. Let's go. Now the fun begins."

* * *

TBC


	24. Chapter 24

Peter was back on his feet the moment Neal and Jason entered the post office, hands firmly planted on his hips and eyes fixated on the carpet beneath his feet. He didn't know where else to look as he listened to the events unfold, completely helpless to interject. He heard a bell jingle, concurrent with the squeaky swing of the door opening and then shutting, and he started to slowly pace the room with a heavy sense of trepidation creeping up inside of him.

As the dialogue between Neal and Jason progressed, it felt like someone had hit fast forward. Just like that, in seconds, every measure of control they had put in place, however basic, was suddenly and unceremoniously ripped away from them, reminding them without remorse that they'd never had any control to begin with.

Just like that, communication would be gone.

As the phone and watch got locked away, the clank of metal and click of a lock coming over the speakers in the room unapologetically, Peter knew they were soon to be cut off. And there was nothing he could do about it.

He clenched his fists at his sides as anger rose inside of him.

The last they heard of the conversation came muffled through the locked door of the P.O. Box.

"What the hell?" Jones asked out loud with a frown from the doorway of the conference room, pushing himself upright from where he'd been leaning against the frame. "Did I hear that right? Did he just say 'now the fun begins'? What does that even mean?"

Peter didn't know. And he didn't know if he wanted to know. If it was worth reading into. So he didn't respond.

There was a moment of chilling hesitation that passed through him, paired with confusion and worry, and suddenly he was searching deep inside for some epiphany of sorts or at least an inclination of a next step. Neal was about to go completely off grid and was with someone that they didn't know enough about. And there was no way to prevent this.

His mind raced. It bounced from concern to concern. From Neal's general whereabouts, and his safety, and the case itself, and what it meant to have no communication, and beyond.

But then he had to force that sense of helplessness away to his best of his ability. He swallowed back fear and tried to stay impartial in the moment in order to remain even-headed and in charge. This was just the beginning.

He knew he had to focus on action plans. He knew Jones was looking to him for direction.

"Boss?" Jones asked, as though picking up on his thought process as well.

"What'd they say on the plates?" Peter demanded, turning to look at Jones now. He ignored the broader question implied by Jones tone and focused on the immediate tactical items.

"They're running them. They said they'd have it in a few minutes," Jones answered.

"Call them back," Peter answered stiffly. "A few minutes is too long. Do not let them off the phone until they give you something. I need to know whose car it is. Now," he stressed the word. He watched Jones turn without a response and leave the room to follow the order while he himself paused again. His mind was continuing to race.

How was Neal feeling? Did he maybe have an alternative plan now that his only means of communication had been cut off? Neal had rolled his eyes at the surveillance concept over the last few days, but in the end had seemed comforted to have some sort of connection back to the team. That was now gone. But Neal was creative, right? Sure he was. Peter certainly wasn't proud to admit it, but Neal had outsmarted him more than once. And while normally that would irritate him, in this moment it made him strangely hopeful. Maybe Neal would think of something he couldn't. Maybe he would have something up his sleeve to keep them all aligned.

Peter cursed under his breath, briefly squeezing his eyes shut. He felt a surge of anger again, at himself, at the situation, at Jason, and just at everything.

But anger wasn't doing anything. He couldn't waste time. He had to act.

Opening his eyes, he caught the familiar sight of the laptop on the conference table in front of him. He closed the gap between him and the table and stared at the screen. At the blinking red dot that was now motionless. That would remain motionless. It blinked at him as though it was taunting him.

He cursed again and reached out the slam the laptop shut.

Suddenly his mind flashed back to the other day, right after he'd just brought Neal onto this investigation of Messier. Within just a couple of hours of being introduced to the case, Neal had broken protocol by entering Messier's office on his own after repeatedly being told he was not to enter the building. Peter had been furious. He'd restrained himself from literally killing his CI and instead lectured him for what seemed the countless time on the basics of simply _listening_ and not going off on his own.

Peter had said it himself. Neal wasn't trained for certain situations. He wasn't an agent. As skilled as Neal was, and as well as he read people, there were just certain things you learned in the academy that were vital. Sure Neal was a survivor and had advanced street smarts, but that was different. Why couldn't Peter get him to understand that? Why did they continually have the same heated discussion? It continued to exasperate Peter that Neal had remained somewhat cynical and impatient under the rebuke, because while he refused to see it, the truth was that he lacked a certain level of basic self-defense preparation that could cause a major difference out in the field.

Peter had admonished him for putting himself in danger, for putting himself somewhere that wasn't in the plan…

Yet now, in this moment, in the meanwhile, Peter had done the same exact thing to Neal. In this scenario, he had agreed to a plan that really even wasn't one at all. The contingency scenarios that they had in place were based on a lackluster understanding of the facts at that point in time. Not to mention they were engaging with an individual whose ties were not just questionable but downright concerning.

He'd threatened to remove Neal from this case from the beginning. At that point it hadn't been for safety reasons. It had been more motivated by a desperate attempt to instill consequences as a result of Neal's behavior; moreso as a punishment than to protect him.

Now Peter wished he'd followed through. It would have been painful, fighting him about it, but then this all could have been avoided. Peter wouldn't have to feel this surging sense of dread and uncertainty. They'd have gotten a case on Messier sooner or later. They would've found more evidence. Not at the expense of Neal going off course with them. They could have done it through forensics on the art and the papertrail.

As the pang of guilt continued to grow, intermingling with the anger and indecision he felt, he admonished himself for falling into that trap. He couldn't listen to his emotion. He couldn't dwell on it. He had to channel this energy elsewhere.

He glanced at the innocuous, closed laptop on the table and then at the audio surveillance equipment that was silent, and he knew he had to move fast to avoid burning time.

He left the conference room immediately and started down into the bullpen, swiftly jogging down the stairs to where Jones sat at his desk and was on the phone. It was late. They were a couple of the last handful of people in the office.

"Jones," Peter stated as he approached. "Look - I'm going to call Hughes. I need you to call back the lead agent that you spoke to on the ground in Vermont."

Jones covered the mouthpiece of his phone briefly as he turned his head towards Peter and nodded, "Sure, Boss. I've got it. But…" he paused and then frowned slightly as he added, "you know I can't do two things at once."

Peter frowned himself, running a nervous hand over his head uneasily, first a little taken aback by the comment before he acknowledged that Jones was right. He couldn't just keep barking out commands. He was only one person. Peter sighed and then shook his head. "You're right. I'll call Diana."

"What's your plan?" Jones asked.

"Well… I've got just a skeleton of one to be honest. But I have three first priorities," Peter answered, brow furrowing further. "IDing the license plate, tracking down the P.O. Box and its owner, and getting me to Vermont as soon as possible."

"You're going there?" Jones raised his eyebrows briefly, slightly surprised.

"Planning on it," Peter affirmed. Without really even thinking it through, he had made up his mind.

Jones then nodded again, accepting that fact while pressing his lips together. Then his phone call took his attention and he uncovered the mouthpiece, stating, "Yes, hi again, I'm still here. It's Agent Jones… We spoke a few minutes ago. I –" He paused, listening. "Oh, you did? That's great. Thanks. Yeah I've got a pen and – yeah, go ahead." He grabbed a pen off the corner of his desk and pushed closer the notepad beside him. He began to write. "Got it. And you ran the background on –" He paused again. "Uh-huh… Okay… Thanks. I will."

He hung up the phone.

"What'd they say?" Peter asked.

Jones dropped his pen on his desk. "Plates came back."

* * *

Neal had a hard time minimizing the aching sense of worry he felt as he and Jason drove quietly from the post office, the soft sound of rock music playing over the radio. He knew he had to act normal, and not like that one stop had changed everything. From Willy's perspective, there was still a job to do and in order to get paid he would have to follow through regardless of any peculiarities of the arrangement. In this line of work, most of Neal's aliases had faced countless oddities and bizarre personalities and fetishes. This wouldn't be any different. In fact, this wasn't even the oddest situation he'd been in.

The biggest difference now was that he just felt alone. Up until the post office, even if the communication was one way, he knew Peter was with him. Peter was aware of where he was and he was partaking in the events at least just by listening.

Now, he was leaving that back at the post office.

As much as he'd scoffed at the FBI's insistence on some sort of tracking, he now kind of understood.

"Where are we?" Neal asked, breaking the silence and then clearing his throat. He hadn't said anything since they'd gotten back in the car.

Jason glanced over at him at the question, both hands gripping the steering wheel. "You already guessed it. Vermont."

"I know, but where?" Neal insisted. He kept his tone even, not wishing to give any indication of his nervousness. Willy was usually pretty carefree.

"Not far from Burlington," Jason allowed, keeping his eyes on the dark road ahead of them. "The house is just a few miles away. Small town." He paused and then chuckled to himself. "Well, I guess any town would seem small given we just left the city, right?"

Burlington, Neal repeated in his mind. He didn't know much about Vermont. He wasn't lying when he'd told Jason he had only visited the state before to go skiing. A map of the state briefly flashed in his mind and he located the town of Burlington on it. He was in the northwestern part of the state, south of the Canadian border by what he guessed was roughly fifty miles. He knew they were close to a lake. After a moment he recalled its name. Champlain. And he knew on the other side of it was New York.

That was all he knew. He hadn't expected to be here. He hadn't done any research.

How was he supposed to get evidence now, without any way of recording the conversations or taking images of the work he was going to be forging? How would any of this help now that he was essentially just acting on his own without any sense of tracking?

He would have to be able to get them a location. He could point them to where to search once this was over.

With that thought in mind, he now tried to pay attention to the roads with renewed vigor, cursing in his mind that he'd gotten slightly distracted after they left the post office parking lot. Damn mind. They had mostly stayed on one rural road, and it was dark. They hadn't even passed many other cars.

Would he be able to get them from the post office to where they were now?

Would he be able to get them from the airport to the post office?

That he didn't need, he reminded himself. That they would have tracked on the watch.

It was from that point on…

He briefly closed his eyes, squeezing them shut for a second before reopening to stare at the road again. He wasn't sure he could provide directions. He hadn't been paying attention. He felt a sense of disappointment and regret fill him. Disappointment in himself. Peter would be disappointed. After all this and they were going to have nothing. He stupidly thought they would have GPS on him the whole time. He hadn't been expecting to have to remember landmarks or street names. Even after the watch was taken away, his mind hadn't made that realization until now.

 _Stop making excuses,_ he told himself harshly. _Start paying attention now._

"Too bad we couldn't bring the bikes," Neal said out loud as his thoughts covered anything but the bikes. He wanted to at least give the pretense of normalcy with some small talk.

"Huh?" Jason glanced at him again. "The bikes. Yeah… Actually, it's a great ride up here. If we weren't under such a tight timeframe, I'd show you around."

'Maybe next time,' seemed a natural response but Neal didn't want to say it. He didn't want a next time. So he didn't respond. They had made a turn and he had again missed the name of the street.

Another turn came a minute later, this time a left. There wasn't a street name. There was a mailbox. He strained his eyes to see it. 25. 25 what? What good was the number of the address without the street name?

Then the road turned into gravel, and the apparent driveway ahead of them stretched out with a growing incline. He couldn't see a house yet.

"Long driveway," he noted.

"Yeah…" Jason agreed, releasing one hand from the steering wheel to rub at the back of his neck. "Graham likes his privacy."

The gravel kicked up under the tires as they continued up the gradient, and Neal could hear the small rocks gently hitting the underbelly of the car. To the left and right were simply woods. Nothing identifiable. Especially in the dark.

Then there was suddenly a wider clearing and a house in view. The house was somewhat impressive. Two stories but wide with multiple large floor to ceiling windows adorning both stories, with a three-car garage. The house looked modern, and its façade was made of some sort of cement board siding that was an ashy gray in color.

"Nice house," Neal commented as Jason drove the car up closer to the garage but parked outside of it.

"Yeah," Jason said, and Neal reflected that the man said 'yeah' a lot. "Let's go."

The car was off with a swift turn of the key in the ignition and then Jason was out of the car, walking around the back to open the liftgate in order to retrieve their bags. Neal quickly got out of the car himself to follow, pushing the passenger door shut behind him.

"So this is my studio the next couple of days…" he said with a forced natural smile.

"You could say that," Jason affirmed, tossing his backpack at him. He didn't smile back.

Neal caught the bag against his chest and then turned it to slip the strap over his shoulder.

"Follow me," Jason directed, moving away from the car and walking towards the front door of the house, a double door of solid blue. He walked up a couple steps to the entrance. Neal followed, nerves on high alert, walking cautiously along as he watched Jason reach for the handle, observing as the door opened that the house wasn't locked.

Neal walked up the few stairs himself and entered through the doorway of the house trailing just behind Jason.

They entered into a foyer of the house. Once inside, Jason moved to close the door behind them. Neal noticed he now locked the door with a turn of a deadbolt, but tried not to think much of it.

Neal's heart was beating hard as they moved into the house. He simply followed Jason, not sure how to behave. His hand went instinctively to his pocket, for his phone, before he reminded himself it wasn't there.

So he tried to memorize details. The foyer was simple, with wooden floors, a small table with a crystal lamp and a vase, and a small upholstered bench for sitting, fabric burgundy in color. To their left were stairs that went up to the second floor. Further to the left was a doorway that seemed to lead into a living room of some sort. Neal could see a couch and an armchair. He was just peering towards the other room to the right when Jason started moving in that direction.

"Come on," Jason said, glancing behind him once to ensure Willy was with him. "Time for introductions."

Neal swallowed and considered his options. There weren't many. Willy still had a job to do.

He followed the man through the doorway and they found themselves in a large kitchen with a nook seating area on the side with built-in bench seats, upholstered in the same burgundy material as the bench from the foyer. There was a man sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a newspaper in front of him. Neal recognized him immediately. Graham.

The man behind it all. The man he'd briefly met at his office. Even while seated, one could tell he was tall. He again wore a suit, a black one this time, accompanied by a crisp white button down shirt but without a tie. He had graying hair, and he wore silver spectacles.

Suddenly Neal felt an edge in the air. He wasn't sure what suddenly sparked it.

Graham was getting to his feet as Jason spoke. "Here he is, Graham. The artist." Jason paused. "You finally get to meet him."

"Finally," Graham agreed with a nod. "Though not the first time we've benefited from his services."

As the man approached him, Neal discreetly scanned the room and immediately he knew something was wrong. A few key things stood out to him. Things that were completely in contrast to the story Jason had fed him back at the post office.

There was a cell phone on the counter.

A microwave was above the stove.

Graham was wearing a watch.

He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Suddenly his heartbeat in his ears was deafening. He stood face-to-face now with Graham, who simply stared at him, as though through him.

The conversation continued around him like his fate had already been signed.

"Is he the one that stopped by the office?" Jason asked next.

Neal felt a chill go down his spine. Graham gave him a small smile, acknowledging him and not the speaker. "Indeed, he is…" he spoke slowly.

Before Neal could respond, he was caught off guard by a blunt force to the back of his head.

Then there was darkness.

* * *

"Jones," Diana stated as she walked swiftly across the FBI office floor towards her colleague's desk. "Fill me in."

Jones looked up as she approached, and she could see the fatigue on his face. It was nearing eleven o'clock. "Hey, Diana… Thanks for coming in."

"Of course." She glanced past Jones and up towards Peter's office, where she saw the man on the phone, pacing with an intensity she rarely saw. It seemed angry almost. "What've we got? And how is he?"

Jones followed her eyes towards the office upstairs. "He's…." he frowned, trying to choose the right words. "He's been a bit on edge since we lost contact with Neal." He paused. "He's on with Hughes now trying to make the case that he should be up in Vermont at their field office."

Diana frowned, eyes lingering on Peter's office before returning back to focus on Jones. "Speaking of losing contact, can you play for me the last few minutes of what you guys heard?"

"Yeah." He pushed back his chair and stood. "Let's go to the conference room. I'll show you what we know."

* * *

TBC


	25. Chapter 25

_Happy holidays and thank you for those who left reviews! It's a busy time of year and I appreciate people are still with me 25 chapters in! I'm happy to be keeping to the roughly once a week update and plan to try to keep it up. Hope you enjoy this chapter. Neal won't. :)_

* * *

When Neal first awakened, it was to a bleary state and not with recognition of what had happened. Initially he simply slowly stirred into consciousness, gaining a sense of increasing discomfort while his awareness grew. It then took only seconds upon becoming cognizant of the actual present for him to immediately jolt back into the land of the living. Recent events came rushing into his mind in a flash, jarringly vivid, as he recalled his last lucid moments before losing consciousness from a blow to the head, presumably by Jason.

Gasping from the rush of feelings and images, he surveyed his physical condition and noted in a blur that he was on his back and that it was dark. A mix of confusion and fear filled him as he tried to assess how much time had passed from recent memories until now. Without any frame of reference, he had no idea. Next, in a haze, he tried to take in his surroundings. He knew he had to sit up.

It was dark around him and he took a few deep breaths, trying to self-soothe and stay calm, now sitting upright. He winced at the sudden onset of a throbbing headache. He ran a hand over the back of his head and felt a lump there, and he wondered what it was he'd been hit by. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly in an attempt to squash the pain before reopening them to try to quickly make sense of his current state. The pain did not subside.

He was sitting on some sort of bench or cot. He turned to slide his legs over to put his feet on the floor, continuing the deep breaths as he tried to force concentration from the haziness he felt. He looked down at himself in the darkness, swallowing and noticing his mouth and throat felt dry. He yearned for water.

The next thing he noticed was that his shoes were gone. He stared down at his bare feet in the dim lighting, frowning, perplexed as to why both his shoes and socks were missing. And as he slowly stretched out his legs, he noticed something else as well. Something was on his ankle. A restraint of some kind. His brow furrowed, feeling the sense of unease quickly shift to panic but also agitation as he tried to get a better view.

His eyesight felt slightly blurred and it was also dark.

He squinted.

Adorning his left ankle was a metal shackle of some sort. He reached down quickly in alarm, pausing slightly at the rush of dizziness he felt at the effort. He tried to ignore the lightheadedness as he examined the restraint. It was on tight, tighter than his usual FBI issued anklet, and it was hard to see where the locking mechanism was. It wasn't a type of restraint he initially recognized as having dealt with before. Further unsettling was the observation that this shackle was attached to a metal chain. He reached down again and pulled at the chain; wincing at the noise of the metal against the floor, his eyes followed the trail of it towards some other part of the room.

"What the hell…" he mumbled out loud, quickly scanning the rest of the darkened room and trying not to panic. His pulse was throbbing in his head, exacerbating the headache. He then tried to get to his feet, but the dizziness became overwhelming. Wavering for a moment on his feet, he had to sit back down again, panting slightly as he curbed an onset of nausea and mentally forced it to pass. He looked around his immediate surroundings, eyes adjusting to the darkness in order to pick up on more details. What he sat on was indeed a cot, and there was a folded blanket and a pillow in the corner of it.

He didn't recognize the room he was in. It was actually fairly large, but it was hard to see beyond the few feet in front of him in the current lighting. Everything was in the shadows. Scanning the walls he couldn't spot any window aside from one small narrow opening that had some sort of dull light shine through. Moon light? Fluorescent light? He couldn't tell.

He looked down at the concrete floors, cold beneath his bare feet, and started to wonder if he was in a basement of some kind. Despite not much to go on, it felt like a basement.

Was he still in the house?

Where were Messier and Jason?

The moments before he was knocked out replayed in his head. Jason's words. 'Is he the one that stopped by the office?' he'd asked.

He felt the same chill course through his spine as when he first heard the question and Messier's response. 'Indeed, he is…'

Now he struggled with what that meant and why he was in this current state. They knew he had stopped by the office. Fine. That would have been obvious the moment he saw Messier again face-to-face. Unless the man had a horrible memory, which was doubtful, Neal knew he would recognize him from the other day. But he had a backstory prepared for that. He hadn't even been given the chance to provide it. And now that they had already linked Willy to that moment, Neal wondered what else they knew or suspected. Did they know Willy was an alias? Did they know of Neal, and his relationship with the FBI?

Heart pounding, he thought back to the moment in the kitchen, at the humiliating realization that he'd fallen for a ruse to give up his phone and watch back at the post office. His only link back to the real world, and he'd stupidly handed it over under a weak premise provided by Jason. He now felt incredibly foolish. He was usually the master of subterfuge. He was typically in the driver's seat, the one smirking behind the scenes. Now he was the dupe.

 _Sorry, Peter_ , he thought to himself glumly, a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. Peter's anger at his presence in Messier's office flashed back to him, and suddenly he knew the man had had every right to be furious. Neal should have just gone directly back to the van. It now seemed stupid on so many levels. If he hadn't gone there by himself, the man never would have recognized him today.

A desperate part of himself tried to still claim that perhaps despite all of this, Jason and Messier didn't associate him with the raid that had happened minutes after he'd entered the office. After all, the FBI hadn't acknowledged knowing him in Messier's presence. Peter had graciously waited before dishing out a tongue lashing until they were alone. Perhaps the pair would have attributed Neal's timing as coincidence. After all, he wasn't present for any of the subsequent questioning.

So maybe they hadn't made any connection. But perhaps they had. Why else would they have knocked him out and brought him here? Wherever here was?

He struggled to keep his mind focused, feeling again a flood of haze as his headache throbbed.

So here he was, completely unknowing of his location, the time of day, or what would happen next. He was now at their behest, and wouldn't know how to approach it, or even how to speculate, until he could gauge what they wanted and what their intentions were.

He glared down again at the ankle bond and leaned down again to run his fingers around it, trying to even slip one finger beneath it. He couldn't. There wasn't a way to simply slip it. He couldn't even find where the unlocking mechanism was to even know where to start.

He cursed, and then glanced around him and the room for his bag. In his bag, he'd packed a set of lock picks. If he could locate that…

He ran his hand around the metal again. He didn't even know if a lock pick would work. He'd never experienced a restraint like this. Handcuffs, rope, cables, nylon, sure. And then there was his FBI issued anklet. But this was different.

Placing the concern over the restraint aside for a moment, once again he tried to climb to his feet. He forced himself to push past the dizziness, which was slightly more manageable than his first attempt, but waited for a moment to gather his bearings before trying to make any real movement. When he felt ready, he took a step in the direction of the chain attached to his ankle. He followed it several feet, acknowledging it looked long enough to allow him to move about the room, before finally finding where it originated. When he got to the end of the chain, he found it was secured on this other end of room by being bolted to the wall.

He pulled at the chain at the root of its bolted position on the wall, knowing it would be futile but also knowing he had to try. As expected, the bolt stayed securely in place. He tried again, grunting as he leaned his full body weight back to pull on it in earnest. He yanked at it, over and over again, feeling the ache in his arms and hands but persisted desperately.

It didn't budge.

Panting, he realized that it wasn't going to work. He leaned in to tried to examine the bolt itself, wondering if there would be a way to cut the chain or to dig into the wall to free himself.

Neal swallowed, a mixture of feelings bubbling up, head still pounding. He felt tears well up momentarily and swallowed them back angrily. Imprisonment as a concept made him sick at his core. During his time in prison, while he externally kept up a nonchalant façade, at least to the best of his ability, the whole notion of being walled in and not his own man made him sick. He often struggled to eat or to do anything at all. Behind the mask, his emotions would take dramatic swings towards anger, fear, sadness, resentment, despair, and disgust. He directed his focus on learning everything he could about the routine of the prison, the guards and their mannerisms, their potential weaknesses and how to distract them.

He looked around the room here. He didn't have time to get into a routine here. He had to get out. He had to get in touch with Peter.

Walking to another end of the darkened room, chain dragging against the floor with a scraping sound, Neal came across a sight as he moved further into the shadowed darkness that made his heart sink.

That side of the room was set-up like an art studio. There was canvas and brushes and many, many pots of paints. There were two easels.

He stared at it.

Clearly they still expected him to do a job.

He shook his head, moving away from that side of the room, backing way from it, and then turned his head, squinting to scan the rest of the space in front of him. He spotted a door, and quickly moved towards it, chain dragging and head pounding.

The door looked like it was made of a heavy stainless steel. Immediately he focused on the doorknob. His hand turned the knob desperately, back and forth. He gripped it tightly, pulling and then turning it again. He tried to shake it, as though he could somehow break the lock, but stopped when his wrist started to ache. He leaned down to examine the knob more closely; it didn't seem to have any appearance of a keyhole on this side of it.

He took a deep breath, exhaling a huff of frustrated breath. He looked down at the chain at his feet and realized that even if he were able to open the door, he wouldn't have enough length to his restraints to do much more than just step into the doorway.

Feeling another surge of anger, without thinking twice about it, he raised his hands up and started to bang on the door. "Hey!" he shouted, metal door hard under his palms. "Open the door!" He continued to pound on the door with fury. "Hey!"

Next he turned his hands into fists. He began to beat them on the door.

There was no response.

After a minute, he stopped, palms and knuckles throbbing, and glared at the door, heart pounding. There had to be a way out of here.

* * *

Diana sat in the conference room, focused on the surveillance equipment in front of her as the last ten minutes of their contact with Neal replayed over the speakers.

As she listened, Jones kept his eyes on her, intent to see if there was anything that she would pick up on that they might have missed. He also glanced at his watch. It was twenty past eleven. No wonder he was tired. Returning his eyes to Diana, all he could observe was her frown and general serious expression. There was nothing telling about her expression.

As the last of their available audio played and the line went silent, Jones reached over to the equipment to switch it off.

"That's it?" Diana asked, turning her eyes to him. "Now the fun starts?"

"That's it," Jones confirmed.

"Damn."

Clearly she didn't have any initial breakthrough to suggest after hearing the tape, and Jones suddenly felt disappointed. It had been silly to think that she might have suddenly picked up on something, but had also been hopeful that he and Peter's fatigue from the last few hours of listening would have distorted their perception from picking up some clue. "That disorder he mentioned," he started, giving her a quizzical look. "You think it's real?"

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest as her eyes returned to the equipment in the room. "Yeah… Believe it or not… It actually is real," she acknowledged. She paused. "I think it's called electromagnetic allergy or hypersensitivity. Something like that." She looked up and caught his raised brows. "What?" she asked, a little defensively. "It was featured on one of the episodes of this medical documentary show that Christie likes."

"And you remembered the name of it?"

She gave him a look. "Yes. I remembered it."

He ignored the look and sighed himself. "So it's not bullshit."

"No." She shook her head. "As crazy as it sounds."

Jones nodded slowly. "It does sound crazy. Not that I thought Caffrey would fall for some bullshit story… But it just seemed a little farfetched."

"Even if it was farfetched…" Diana answered. "And whether he 'fell for it' or not… From what I just listened to, he really didn't have much of a choice in the matter."

"That's probably true," Jones replied. He'd seen the pictures of Jason, and knew the man could easily overpower their slender CI even if he wasn't armed. The man looked like a person who seriously worked out, whereas Neal had more of a runner's build. And accordingly, Neal was much better suited to running than fighting.

"Peter said you had a license plate as well?"

"Yeah," Jones ran a hand over his head, scrubbing his fingers over his hair briefly. "Neal took a picture when they got into a car after they landed in Vermont. They ran it for us, but it doesn't really make sense."

"In what way?"

"It came back registered to a police detective that works in southern Vermont."

She made a face. "Really?"

"Yeah, like I said, it doesn't make any sense."

"Did it match the make of the car?"

He frowned. "Actually, now that you mention it, I'm not sure." He paused. "Neal's photo was much more focused on the plate than the vehicle. But judging by the picture, based on his height, it's some kind of dark SUV. I can call them back."

"Might as well," Diana answered with a shrug. "And did they contact the detective?"

"They tried to. He was out on a case apparently. They were trying to get in touch."

"So what's Peter think?" Diana asked. She unfolded her arms and pushed back her chair to stand, moving towards the door of the conference room where she could get a better angle of their boss's office. "Does he think he's been made?"

"Don't think he knows what to think."

"And what do _you_ think?" Diana noted Peter's door was still closed and turned back to face her teammate, walking further into the room towards the table again.

Jones hesitated. He wasn't sure what he thought. "I don't know. Neal had a history with this guy. He's worked for them before. But never outside of the city. So I don't know how to interpret this twist." He paused. "No cell phone? No watch?" He shrugged. "Getting him to give those up just seemed too... too specific. The timing…"

"But it's possible that the wife does have this disorder and that all of that was necessary."

"It's _possible_ ," Jones answered, tone a bit skeptical.

"Did you run a search on the wife?" she asked next. "Messier's marriage records?"

He paused. They hadn't. This is why it was good Diana was here. She brought a fresh pair of eyes to the case. "We should." He thought for a moment and then spoke again. "What I don't understand… Is if they _did_ make him… and I'm not saying that's the case, but hypothetically… Then why would they still take him along? Wouldn't that be it and they'd break it off?"

"No," came Peter's voice from the doorway, startling them both. As they turned to view him there, he continued to speak, oblivious that he had startled them with his sudden presence. "They wouldn't break it off. They have a job to do, and Neal's the only one that can do it for them."

"I didn't mean to say they know he's with the FBI," Jones said, trying to ensure his statement hadn't been misinterpreted by his boss. "I know we don't know that."

"I know," Peter answered, shaking his head and sending his agent an appeasing look. "But we're all thinking of it. It's a real possibility. Which is why we need to act quickly."

"So what's the plan, Boss?" Diana asked.

"What'd Hughes say?" Jones added.

Peter leaned against the doorway frame, his posture seeming to mirror his mood. "Hughes thought it was a little premature to head to Vermont," he admitted, tone low. "But after we spoke about it at length, I think he now understands it's important… We need to be close by in case Neal needs backup."

"How will we know if he needs backup?" Jones asked. "We have no contact." He missed the look Diana shot him.

"We have a better chance of knowing and offering it if we're in the general vicinity," Peter responded, tone a bit curt. After pausing for a minute, rubbing a hand over his jaw as though deep in thought, he then looked up at his agents again, studying them each individually. Then he said, "Diana, if you're willing, I'd like you to come with me."

She nodded and responded without hesitation. "Sure. Absolutely."

Peter met her eyes and silently thanked her before shifting his focus to his other agent. "Jones, you'll stay here to continue to go through the files and run those background checks. We'll check-in with you as needed, and you can be Hughes main point of contact. Go to the warehouse tomorrow; see what Neal's collected so far and whether it suggests anything. He should have been keeping notes. Read them."

"Will do," Jones affirmed with a nod. "Diana and I thought of a few other angles to check out as well.

"Good. And anything back yet on Adam? The old friend of Neal's?"

"No," Jones answered, shaking his head. "I'll call them again in the morning."

Peter looked frustrated for a moment but said nothing more. He cleared his throat and then focused back on his female agent. "Diana, I know you already agreed to come with me, but there's one small catch you should know."

She cocked an eyebrow. "A catch?"

He nodded, frowning slightly. "While Hughes agreed we could use FBI resources to get to Vermont, including coordinating a jet, it's late… They can't get a pilot until the morning, and there's no commercial flights this time of night."

"So…" she said slowly, piecing together those facts, "you want to drive?"

"Yes," he answered, giving her an almost apologetic look. "I know it's a long drive, but if we're going to go, I'm not waiting until the morning and giving them hours ahead of us."

"Boss, it's at least a five hour drive."

"Five times longer than flying," he answered with a nod. "I know, but –"

"I'm in," Diana interrupted before he could say more. At his surprised expression, she continued. "Hey, I agreed to go. And that means I agree with whatever method it takes to get there." She gave him a smile.

"Thanks." He gave a small, appreciative smile in return, though it was short-lived. The truth was, he was ready to go regardless of whether anyone agreed to accompany him.

"Have you told Elizabeth?" Jones asked.

Peter pressed his lips together, silent for a moment. Then he shook his head, working his jaw slightly. "She knew I'd be late tonight," he replied. "But no. I haven't caught her up on what's happening. I'll call her from the car." He glanced at Diana. "How soon can you be ready to go?"

She shrugged. "Whenever you're ready," she offered. "I actually have an overnight bag in the car. I was going to go to Christie's whenever we were done here so I packed. Do you need to get anything?"

Peter seemed to think it over for a minute before he shook his head. "I'll worry about that when we get there. Let me grab a couple things from my office, and we can go."

Jones and Diana watched him leave the room and then exchanged a look between themselves.

Jones spoke first. "He's literally going to go with the clothes on his back, and that's it?"

Diana made a face and shrugged. "I mean, he doesn't want to waste time. If we go back to his place, we're literally going out of the way of our destination and would then need to doubleback. You saw him. He wants to go."

"That's for sure…" Jones said. "And without much of a plan."

"He's right though. We should be nearby in case Caffrey needs us. By the way, can you give me the address and contacts you had for the local FBI office?" Diana asked. "They have the background of what's going on?"

"The know everything we do," Jones confirmed. "We had a copy of the case files sent over as well."

She nodded. "Okay, thanks."

"I'll get you their info," Jones continued. He paused, and then gave Diana a serious look. "But do me a favor and really keep your eyes open on this one, Diana. Peter's…" He trailed off briefly. "I don't know how to describe it, but I do know he's gonna need to have someone who has his back when he's up there."

"Of course I have his back," she answered, frowning slightly.

"I know. But it's Caffrey… Ever since he went off grid, Peter's been a bit… on edge. You'll see what I mean when you're trapped in a car with him for five hours."

She rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious," Jones answered. "I don't know what it is, but when it's Caffrey… Peter's a little more…"

As her partner searched for words, she chimed in. "Parental versus procedural?" She scoffed slightly. "Trust me, I know. In case you haven't noticed, that's been the case since day one."

Peter appeared in the door again at the end of her statement, long strap of his briefcase slung over his shoulder, clearly looking ready to go. "What about the case?" he asked.

Diana dismissed the question quickly. "Nothing. Let's go." She gave Jones a knowing look as she walked towards their boss, and said, "Send me the contact info when you get a chance, Jones."

"Will do," Jones responded. He watched them both leave with a solemn expression.

* * *

One hour into the car ride with Peter, Diana quickly observed that the man's mannerisms offered a true testament to Jones' statement that their boss was on edge.

The ride started with a phone call to Mrs. Burke. To Diana's alarm, Peter chose to make the phone call over the car's speakerphone system just as they had merged onto the FDR headed north. It wasn't the phone call itself that surprised her; it was just the timing. Personally, Diana always felt that the FDR was an amateur attempt at a professional speedway, with constant lane cutting and a mix of aggressive personalities, from cabs on and off duty to people simply in a rush to get somewhere. When there wasn't traffic, it felt more like a video game, and not the opportune time to make a serious phone call to a spouse to inform them you were leaving town for an indefinite amount of time.

Neal had often complained at the office of Peter's driving tendencies upon returning from rides with him, speaking cautiously around Peter himself on the topic, given the man's propensity to avidly defend his driving, though it clearly phased Neal enough to make the comments, usually with wide-eyes and an incredulous tone as though he'd survived a near-death experience; he'd then more openly express his complaints on being Peter's passenger with smaller groups, questioning at times whether their boss had a secret vehicular death-wish that they needed to tell him about. On more than one occasion he'd come back with a plea for someone else to 'Please tell Peter that the car doesn't just drive itself.'

Now as a passenger herself, hearing the automatic sensor of the car go off in alarm on more than one occasion of a vehicle in their blind spot while Peter precariously changed lanes while explaining to his wife he wasn't sure where Neal was, Diana felt sympathy for the CI she often rolled her eyes at. She gripped the strap above her head as a futile measure of security as she felt a rush of adrenaline and fear course through her veins.

The call wrapped up by the time they reached the exit for the GW. Diana had only half been able to listen, as she had mostly been trying to telepathically channel the other drivers on the road to watch out for them. She also wanted to give Peter some privacy where she could, despite the need for a hands-free phone call. But what she had heard didn't surprise her. Elizabeth was worried, both for her husband and for Neal, and while being supportive, was questioning whether they were doing the right thing to leave town. But she knew her stubborn husband, and also that he was already en route, and didn't press the issue much more than to express her trepidation, something they all felt.

The call ended with Elizabeth offering to find Peter and Diana a suitable place to stay in Burlington, something Peter agreed to readily and thankfully. Accommodations were not something he had yet considered.

When the call was over, Diana let her eyes leave the road, which still felt bright with lights of cars and the city despite the hour of the day, and took a look at her boss. He looked tired, darkness under his eyes, but focused. Driven.

"If you get tired," she began, filling the silence in the car cautiously, "I'm happy to drive. There's no need for you to drive straight through yourself." And it'll probably be safer, she added to herself silently.

"Thanks," he responded, eyes not leaving the lanes of cars ahead of him. He gripped the steering wheel with a sight. "Maybe we can switch when we stop for gas."

"At least there shouldn't be much traffic this time of night," Diana continued. She knew she'd have to offer some sort of companionship and conversation to make this drive sustain something more than the fear of the case and the unknown ahead of them, for the sake of both of them.

"That's true," Peter acknowledged.

She paused, and then asked, "Do you ever let Caffrey drive?"

To that question, Peter's lips suddenly curled into a smile and he let out a small chuckle. He shook his head. "Absolutely not."

"Has he offered?"

"Oh yeah," Peter replied, tone slightly sarcastic. He was still smirking. "Sometimes he'll insist."

"Yet you don't let him?" Diana asked, thinking to herself that after not long in the car with Agent Burke herself, she could understand the insistence.

"Nope."

"He said he can drive."

"If I can find a valid license for him, then maybe. Until then, no."

"You let him have the bike."

"I was picking my battles. Besides, Willy had a driver's license. I just didn't have time to run it for validity."

Diana fell silent at that. As a handful of seconds ticked by, she glanced back at Peter and noticed the smirk over the driving discussion was short-lived. He looked serious again. Deep in thought.

This was going to be a long drive.

"What are you thinking of?" Diana asked.

Peter glanced over at her again briefly, brow furrowing slightly. "Honestly?" He sighed. "I'm thinking about how earlier this evening, Neal seemed so nervous about this whole thing. And that in itself should have been a sign."

"Nervous?" she asked skeptically. "He seemed pretty confident when we were talking about it at the office earlier."

"Not at the office. He was at my house before he left."

Diana nodded slowly. "Gotcha." She knew there was another side of Neal that existed outside of the smokescreens he put up at the office. There was another side of Peter as well. She caught glimpses of it at times, watching exchanges between the two of them, particularly in heated moments. "But I don't think being a bit anxious before a case is any kind of 'sign,' Peter," she assured. "Most people get a little nervous before going undercover." She paused and then added, "He'll be fine." The statement was more instinctual than confident.

Peter didn't seem to want the comfort. After a slight pause, he responded with a simple, "You should try to get some sleep, Diana. Especially if you're going to drive the second half."

She didn't disagree but also didn't want to simply closer her eyes and ignore the worry she could feel weighing over him. "I will," she answered. "As long as you're okay to drive, Peter. I'm happy to talk."

He gave a small grunt. "Can't say I'm much of a conversationalist right now… I'm just… I'm more second-guessing what we decided to do."

"Well, don't," she said pointedly, tone firm. "We all agreed – and Caffrey the most, by the way—that this was the right course of action."

"I know," Peter allowed, tone slightly doubtful. "But his push to go undercover like this doesn't mean it was the right decision… It might have made sense for the case… But we're supposed to protect him. As hard as he makes it, that's our end of the deal."

"And that's what we're doing right now," Diana assured. "We've got his back."

"You say that…" Peter responded. "But we don't even know where he is…"

"We'll find him, Peter."

Peter didn't respond. He just kept his eyes on the road, and pressed his foot down a little harder on the gas pedal.

* * *

Pounding on the door had left Neal exhausted and frustrated. His fists hurt, his head pounded with pain, and he felt increasingly aggravated. To think Mozzie had considered his departure out of town on this case a potential opportunity for freedom… That thought now made him bristle with irritation. While he'd insisted to Mozzie that an escape was not his intention since he had a job to do, now ironically escape was becoming a priority. Never had they guessed that going on this case would cause him to find himself in a deeper form of imprisonment.

When the initial attempt to get someone's attention by pounding on the door and yelling proved futile, Neal sank down to the floor to sit with his back against the wall closest to the door. Headache protesting, he went to work trying to figure out this bind around his ankle. He had to figure that out first or getting the door open wouldn't make a difference.

He didn't know at what point he had fallen asleep. But soon he found himself waking again, slumped over against the wall, headache slightly subdued but still present.

He again didn't know how much time had passed. And while he gained his senses for the second time in that room, he was again filled with anger. He got back to his feet, stumbling just slightly with renewed dizziness, and turned to the door again, resuming his attempt to get some sort of answers as he raised his hands and again slammed them against the door.

"Hey!" he shouted, voice accompanying the heavy slap of his hand against the metal door. "Someone open the door!"

This time it only took a few minutes before he got someone's attention. He heard the sound of lock turning and quickly took a step back from the door, breathing deeply in and out, dull pain in his palms reignited, and waited anxiously. Another lock clicked and he wondered just what sort of puzzle this place would be to get out of.

With a creak, the door then opened, revealing Jason. Behind him there was light and Neal squinted at the contrast to his dark surroundings. It was slightly blinding. He tried to take a step to the side to take a look behind Jason, to get his bearings on location, but his eyesight didn't seem to focus quick enough and then Jason swiftly stepped into the doorway, blocking his view. Then he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The now unlocked door.

Instinct told Neal to go for the door, to try to skirt around Jason, and then make a run for it, but he knew he couldn't. Instinct was forgetting about the restraint on his ankle. And about their size difference. He wouldn't make it past the doorway.

"What the hell is this, Jason?" Neal demanded, realizing once he spoke that his voice was hoarse and his throat sore. As he spoke, he knew somehow he still had to maintain the role of Willy. And Willy wasn't as brazen as Neal. Willy was more subdued, but then again – how the hell would Willy react in this situation? How would anyone react.

"Good morning…" Jason said slowly. His tone was benign. He seemed to give Neal the once over, but slowly as though his own eyes were adjusting to the change of lighting. "Listen—"

"What happened?" Neal persisted. "In the kitchen? You had a phone, and you had—"

"Stop. I'll explain…"

"And you knocked me out?" Neal continued, voice rising. He knew his voice retained a sense of panic and couldn't help it. He resisted the urge to move forward and shove Jason. To do something physical. But Willy wouldn't do that. "Why? What is this?" He lifted his foot and pointed to the chain. "Why am I locked up? Jason, I thought this was like our old arrangement. I thought –"

"Calm down," Jason interjected, raising a hand to cut him off. As Neal quieted slightly, the man raised his eyebrows and studied him. "Are you done?"

Neal wasn't done. Far from it. He was angry, fuming even, and scared. Right now the anger and adrenaline washed out the fear, but he could still feel it. This was uncharted territory. Not trusting himself to say anything further, he simply nodded.

"Good." Jason continued to eye him, face solemn and shadowed. "Do you want me to turn on the lights?"

Neal swallowed back a lump in his throat and then nodded again. "Yes."

"Okay." Jason turned from him just briefly, taking a step back to reopen the door. He reached out into that hall for presumably a light switch.

Neal watched him, body tingling with an urge to make a movement now that Jason was slightly turned from him. His heart beat in his chest, and he strongly considered it. He took one step forward, clenching his hands and mentally preparing himself.

Then the lights then shot on, illuminating the room and briefly blinding him. He squeezed his eyes shut and hissed at the flash of sensitivity.

Now Jason was shutting the door again, standing in front of it, arms crossed over his broad chest. He observed Neal solemnly. "If you were thinking even for a second of trying to test me, don't," he said simply, voice low and tone stiff. "You won't make it an inch. We need to talk."

Neal held one hand above his eyes, blocking the direct glare of the light as his eyes adjusted. "I need to know what's going on." His eyes flickered from Jason to the rest of the room and the door, now that he had the lights on, trying to take in all the details possible.

"So do I," Jason responded. He gave Neal a discerning stare. "Will, it's come to my attention that you might not be the same person I did business with ten years ago."

The frown that formed over Neal's face was genuine and fitting for either himself or his alias. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that I don't have time for bullshit, taking chances, or putting myself in any kind of situation other than getting what I need, and getting it as soon as possible." Jason's tone was curt.

"I don't understand, what do you –"

"Why were you at Graham's office?" Jason asked, taking a step towards him with a questioning expression. "Days before you were at Julie's bar?"

Neal knew he couldn't deny being there. "I told you," he started softly instead. "I do a little of this and that. I thought maybe he might have an opportunity so I stopped by and –"

"An opportunity?" Jason interrupted, brow furrowing. "Like what? Who told you about him?"

"No one," Neal answered quickly. "But in my experience sometimes the smaller art dealers might be interested in… You know. Our kind of work."

Jason's eyes narrowed. "Our kind of work," he repeated.

"I didn't even realize he was connected to you," Neal continued, frowning as he spoke earnestly, urging himself not to ramble. "I never met him when we worked together before. But recently, every now and then I take a chance, and I stop by an open studio or office to see if there's anything I can offer. Sometimes it works out." Neal wondered why the story felt so weak.

"This time it didn't work out."

"No, it didn't," Neal acknowledged as he continued to frown. "We got interrupted."

"By the FBI."

"Yeah," Neal responded, nodding briefly as he swallowed. He could felt his heartbeat pick up.

"And then I ran into you a few days later."

Neal had to nod again. He was starting to feel nervous.

"Are they onto you?" Jason asked, tone sharp. "Tell me now."

Neal suddenly realized the perception of the scenario was a bit different than he anticipated. Absent was the accusation that he himself was aligned with the Feds. Instead there was another accusation. That he was the Fed's target? Perhaps this was less offending to them? Barely time to think, he went with it and responded with an innocent, "Wait, what?"

"The FBI…" Jason responded, voice carrying a sharp edge. "Are they on to you?" He shook his head and then regarded Neal with a grave stare. "Will. We have things we _need_ done this week. Sooner. I told you. We can't have anything compromising that."

"I know," Neal answered. "I don't know about any Feds. I just –"

"Just listen. This is the reason we left the city last time. They caught on to us. Will, we need to know anything that might lead them here."

"Here?" Neal projected complete incredulity and it was genuine. His mind tried to process the insinuation that he was being watched, and not the other way around. "Wait – no one's following me. What are you talking about? Is that why you took my phone and my watch? I've got nothing on me."

"We searched you while you were out," Jason answered. "You're clean. What are they looking for?"

Searched while he was out. That didn't sit well with Neal and he grimaced. But he also had to keep the dialogue moving in the right direction so he continued to speak. "I don't know about any Feds," he lied.

"No?" Jason responded. "Well, they seem to know about _you_. What've you been up to that they're on your tail?"

"On me?" Neal echoed disbelievingly. As defensive as he had Willy react, he was starting to feel somewhat…. Relieved? They weren't accusing him of being compromised in the way that he'd feared. It seemed they thought perhaps he had simply garnered the attention of authorities. Not an ideal scenario but certainly not the worst-case scenario he had feared.

"Yeah. You. What've you been up to?" Jason insisted, eyes narrowing. "I can't have anything risking this operation."

"Nothing," Neal insisted, a little desperately. "Jason. Look. I've got nothing to do with anything. I don't know why the Feds showed up that day." He shifted his stance and with the movement, he felt the weight on his ankle and heard the clang of the chain. "What the hell is with this?" He gestured at the restraint.

"I told you. I can't have anything risking this operation," Jason repeated. "You have a job to do. And you're going to do it without any risk of things going a different way than I say."

"I can't be locked up in here," Neal told him, shaking his head.

"You can be. You will be," Jason answered, face passive. "We have a deal, just like we talked about."

"A deal? We didn't talk about _this_ ," Neal replied, exasperated. "You didn't mention knocking me unconscious and holding me prisoner in a … a … what is this, anyway? A basement?"

"It's the same deal," Jason responded stiffly.

"No. It's not." Neal shook his head. The restraints and the idea of being locked down here had him mad. He clenched his hands. Fear pulsed through his veins.

"It is," Jason said stiffly. He took a couple steps forward, closing the gap between them, and Neal found himself frozen in place. He wanted to step away, or to run, but there was nowhere to go. Jason reached out and grabbed him by the upper arms, holding him tightly. "Do you remember the first piece we need?"

"The first piece?" Neal echoed. Jason was so close he could smell the coffee and cigarettes on his breath. His head was still pounding, headache returning, and he tried to remain calm. "Jason, you need to get this… this chain off of me. I can't be locked up like this. I can't."

"The first piece," Jason repeated. "Name it."

"No." Neal shook his head. He was adamant. He wouldn't be locked up. He couldn't be. He wouldn't be hostage. This isn't why he came here. He winced as Jason's hold became tighter.

"Name it," Jason said again.

Neal grimaced at the man's grip on him. He had to get out of here. He tried to pull away but the hold became impossibly tighter.

"Name. It." Jason's tone was gruff. "Now." He squeezed him again.

It started to really hurt. "Klint," Neal gasped.

"Right." Jason paused. "That's what you're painting first." Jason then began to physically steer Neal with force towards the other end of the room, turning him around and then pushing him with a tight grip on his shoulders. Neal resisted at first, but it was pointless given the strength Jason had over him.

"Stop… Don't do this," Neal objected, hearing the chain drag against the floor and wanting to revolt against the entire situation. Pulling from the hold slightly, but not wanting to just fall or cause the man to hold him tighter, Neal begrudgingly moved in the direction he was pulled. "Jason, this isn't how it worked before."

"That was ten years ago," Jason responded curtly. "In simpler times." He heaved Neal ahead of him then, placing him in front of the table, easel, and art supplies Neal had noticed earlier. "Here."

"No." Neal shook his head, headache throbbing. "Jason, I—"

"Will." Jason said the name with contempt and took his arm again to yank him towards him, so that they were face-to-face again. Neal was starting to feel like a rag doll. "This isn't a discussion. I don't have the patience. I told you what we need. We agreed."

"But you—"

"We worked well in the past. You did what you needed. You kept your mouth shut. You were discreet, and quiet. I need the same now."

"I wasn't in chains then," Neal spat back.

"I can't take _any chances_ ," Jason persisted, squeezing his arm again with force. "We talked about what you need to do."

"You don't trust me?"

"I don't trust _anyone_ ," Jason responded irritably.

Neal's mind was racing, trying to figure out his next words, his next con, through the headache and fear. This wasn't what he expected. He thought things could go south, but not this fast and not like this.

"If someone is tracking you," Jason continued, "then we need to do this fast, and you need to tell me anything you might know that would lead them here."

"No one is _tracking_ me," Neal answered irritably. "But I can't paint like this."

"Like this?"

"Like _this_ ," Neal said emphatically, pointing down at his ankle and the bond there.

"You don't have a choice." Jason observed him with impatience. "Will. I need the Klint piece _yesterday_. We talked about this on the plane. I need you to focus."

"No." Neal wasn't sure why he was objecting so much. Part of his consciousness nudged him to be more agreeable. Willy would probably be more agreeable. But he couldn't fathom keeping this restraint on and just giving them what they wanted. His pride burned too much. "I told you. I can't paint like this. I won't."

He didn't see the blow coming. He was so focused on the restraint on his leg that he didn't even see Jason raise his hand. The backhand took him by surprise and he took a surprised step backwards, hissing at the sting of the blow.

"Will," Jason said, no emotion in his tone. "I've never had to be forceful with you." He kept his arm raised, as though a silent threat.

Neal could feel his jaw and the side of his face burning from the blow, exacerbating his throbbing headache. He narrowed his eyes at the other man, but reminded himself he had very little leverage here.

"I don't want to hurt you, Will," Jason continued rigidly. "I want you to paint, just like you used to, and I want to follow through on our deal. But in order to do that, these circumstances are non-negotiable."

"No one is following me," Neal said, more softly this time, tone wavering just slightly. He felt dizzy again. "And I won't run away."

"It's non-negotiable," Jason repeated harshly. "And if you argue with me, or you don't deliver, then I will hurt you. Do you understand?"

Neal felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't think of a response.

"If you want the _lights on_ ," Jason continued, "and if you ever want an option out of here, then you will listen to me, understand? I need that painting. Without the painting, you're disposable."

Neal rubbed at his jaw briefly and stared at the table of supplies. He then gazed down at the chain attached to his leg. He tried once more. "The chain. It's not necessary. Can we—"

"No." Jason was firm. "Do not ask me again. How long do you need?"

Neal frowned at him, trying to catch up with the question. "What?"

"How long until you finish?"

Neal swallowed, thinking over the Klint piece in detail. He knew it well. He'd done it for them before. There was a version sitting in Queens, at the warehouse. "A day," he said. He was pretty sure he could do it in a day, with the right materials. He didn't want to, didn't wish to comply with these circumstances, but knew resisting again right now would likely result in another slap.

Jason nodded. "Good. You get a day." He studied Neal with a discriminating gaze. "Just remember. You're here, and you're alive, because of what we can do together. You compromise that, and it's over. We've got a deal, unless you ruin it. Understand?"

Neal didn't. Not fully. But he nodded anyway and swallowed. "Yes."

"Good."

Neal stared again at the materials in front of him, and then returned his gaze to Jason. Then he glanced down again at the chain attached to his ankle. He hadn't imagined this scenario. Neither had Peter. None of what they had talked about covered this. Not even close.

"Just do your job," Jason told him.

With that, Jason turned and walked away. Neal remained frozen in place, feeling an emptiness inside as the other man disappeared from the room, followed by the sound of the locks turning back into place.

* * *

TBC


	26. Chapter 26

Diana stifled a yawn behind the hand she raised to her mouth as she followed Peter and a junior agent from the Vermont field office through the front doors of the FBI building; the kid, bright-eyed and eager, in an oversized suit and crooked tie, had met them upon their arrival at the entrance to escort them into the building, asking them rapid-fire questions about what it was like to work in 'the city'. Diana had tried to answer politely in as few words as possible, thinking this person behaved more like an intern than an agent, while Peter stayed tightlipped. Security was a breeze as they flashed their badges and walked through the only metal detector in the lobby.

While she felt exhausted, Diana knew this was just the beginning of their efforts. She had driven the last two hours of their journey to Vermont with the help of a large red bull beverage and a donut purchased at a gas station somewhere in upstate New York. Conversation was minimal in the second half of their trip, and she'd been thankful for the caffeine. Peter hadn't slept, but he seemed deep in thought and less willing to chat, staring ahead at the road in front of them with unspoken concern obvious on his face, occasionally taking a sip of the coffee he had purchased at the same gas station.

They arrived at an ungodly hour to a Days Inn hotel that Elizabeth had secured for them. Two rooms, reserved for two days with the real duration yet to be determined. They didn't mention that as they checked in, nor had they subsequently spoken about it.

They had, with little words exchanged but mutual sentiment, agreed to a couple hours of sleep once at the hotel. Diana herself had fallen asleep the minute her head hit the stiff linen clad pillow, caffeine high completely burned off and replaced with utter fatigue.

She wasn't sure she could say the same of her boss.

The next morning, waking to her cell phone's alarm clock with a groan, she endured a cold shower and a cheap coffee made to go from the lobby of the hotel as a wake up call. Both did little to remove her weariness, but she couldn't complain given the circumstances.

The kid was leading them across the carpeted floor of the field office, gesturing to point to the director's office. "Agent Clarke is expecting you," he said.

"Thank you," Peter responded politely. These were the first words he exchanged with the young agent beyond introducing himself at the entrance.

Diana studied her boss as they continued towards Agent Clarke's office. The man had been relatively quiet that morning even before arriving here. He looked surprisingly well put together, despite the lack of sleep and the second day of wearing the same suit, but she wondered how long that façade would last. She'd asked him how much he slept, but he had somewhat dismissed the answer.

He was alert and direct as he knocked on the doorway of the director's office. "Agent Clarke?" he asked through the open door.

A middle-aged woman, with slightly graying brown hair pulled tightly back into a bun, looked up from her desk. She slowly stood, smoothing down the front of her blue pants suit before taking a step around her desk to offer her hand to Peter in greeting.

"You must be Agent Burke," she greeted as they shook hands, her tone formal and expression neutral. She looked behind him at Diana. "And you are?"

"Agent Berrigan," Diana responded, giving a polite smile as she stepped forward and reached to also shake the other woman's hand. "Diana."

"Well, welcome to Vermont," Clarke continued. "I go by Val." She turned around to walk back to her desk, an unspoken invitation for them to enter her office. "I'm sure you'd prefer to be here under different circumstances."

"You can call me Peter. I think my other agent, Clinton Jones, has provided you all the background we have on the case?" Peter asked. He walked over to take a seat in the office as Val sat down behind her own desk. "I believe you have a copy of the case file."

"I do. He sent over a lot of helpful information…" Val answered slowly as she flipped open a case file on her desk. "I've been going through it since I got in this morning. But I'd like to get your perspective as well."

Diana sat down in the chair next to Peter.

"Of course," Peter answered. "Anything you need to know."

* * *

Neal glared at the canvas in front of him.

The brush in his hand felt like a weight.

The whole thing was wrong. The room was wrong. The lighting was wrong. The direction was wrong. The fact he was locked up…. Was. Wrong.

He took a deep breath and tried curtail the anger he felt. Anger wouldn't get him anywhere.

His glare shifted from the canvas to the chain attached to his ankle.

He couldn't concentrate. Not like this.

With a grunt, he dropped the paintbrush on to the table in front of him, ignoring the splash of paint that splattered a few inches in both directions of the forsaken instrument. Normally he'd never be so careless with his supplies. He rarely made a mess. But he was angry.

He crouched down to his haunches and then slowly shifted to sit on the floor, pulling his ankle closer and peering for the hundredth time at the metal around it. He needed to find a way to get it off.

It was driving him crazy.

Again he pointlessly tried to try to slip a finger between the metal and his skin. He couldn't. It wasn't on tight enough to cause any circulation issues, but it was tight. Much tighter than Peter or anyone else had ever secured his anklet or any handcuffs.

The metal was smooth and while he could find a seam along it, where possibly there was an 'in', he was unable to find the locking mechanism. In the dark, he'd hoped it was simply a concealed latch or something he could unveil once given light. But now even with full visibility, the restraint had him puzzled.

Frustrated, he kicked his leg out, away from him, scowling at his ankle as though it was somehow at fault. He then sighed and looked back up at the painting on the canvas, barely started.

It wasn't a difficult painting. And while Jason had provided photos of the original, from different angles and sizes, with measurements, Neal barely needed it. He'd actually seen this particular piece in person many times, and had crafted a similar one before for this same duo years before.

Yet while it wasn't difficult, Neal was having a hard time completing the task. Each time he picked up the paintbrush or caught a whiff of the paint itself, he felt a surge of rage.

Painting had to be _felt_. Even counterfeits. Doing it under duress or for the wrong reason felt like a betrayal to himself. While it would be easy to just complete the work, channel the brush strokes needed, and perfect it to completion, he couldn't help but feel the need to be recalcitrant instead.

Any counterfeiting he'd done before was for his own personal reasons. Not because someone had forced his hand. He'd collaborated, sure, but not like this. This wasn't collaboration. This was captivity.

After a few minutes of sitting on the floor, stewing, Neal pushed himself up to his knees and crawled along the path of the chain, floor hard beneath his knees. He once again found the chain's origin on the far side of the room. His hand trailed over where it was bolted to the wall, and he pulled at it, as though this time the outcome might be different from the many, many countless other attempts.

It wasn't.

He'd scoured the room for tools once Jason had left him alone with the lights on and had come up with not much useful. Nothing that he could use to chip away at the wall, never mind get through the metal. He had at least found a bathroom; a nondescript door that looked like a closet was the first thing he'd spotted when Jason left, unnoticed before in the darkness. Behind it revealed a very simple toilet and sink. No windows or any other opportunity.

The other items in the room proved somewhat useless. Unless he took apart the cot or found some other sort of clue, he didn't yet know how he could break out of this room.

He could claim he needed things to complete the artwork.

He tried to think about the validity of needing other materials to create the work. Jason surely wouldn't have known all the items he might have used before to create the paintings.

But why would something useful, like a screwdriver or hammer, seem reasonable?

He glared at the chain. He projected all the fury and rage he felt towards it.

Nothing happened in return.

He resisted punching the wall. Hurting his hands wouldn't help anything.

He thought back to his conversations with Peter before leaving for the case, both of them acknowledging the potential temptation of being 'off leash' and away from the Bureau. Even the most vague essence of those temptations was a thousand miles away. Neal desperately wished to be back on the Bureau's radar, easily found. He knew he wasn't that far away from the post office they had tracked him to, but it was far enough. And how were they to know that in the time that had passed, they hadn't gone further.

Peter always found him.

But how, this time?

He was basically underground.

What would Peter even do in this situation? What would Moz do? There had to be something to do. Neal always escaped. He always ran. He wasn't always proud of the fact, but he was usually able to find some opportunity within his own devices to have control over a situation.

This was worse than prison. Prison didn't have him on a chain.

There was something about that particular detail which was really driving him mad. While he often referred to his radius and the overall control Peter had over him as a 'leash,' it wasn't a physical one. Not really. He still had free will. If he went against orders, there were consequences, but it was still his choice what decision to make. If he truly wanted to, nothing was going to physically stop him from stepping past his radius unless he was with them. In the moment of temptation, it was all psychological and paired with the threats of what would happen if he did go outside of it.

This was entirely different.

Given his current scenario, he felt he would really reconsider ever using the term 'leash' again loosely, at least not metaphorically.

Peter had been right to be cautious of this undercover role. He'd been right that they didn't know Jason. While Neal had considered him overly cautious or maybe even distrusting of Neal himself, he now regretted those arguments.

He was thinking about this in detail, head hurting physically and soul hurting philosophically, when he heard the locks of the door turning.

He wasn't sure what to do then, feeling slight panic and also realizing suddenly he had no control over when Jason or anyone entered the room. He immediately recognized that being next to the wall trying to assess the integrity of the chain was not an ideal predicament to be found it, and he was soon scrambling away from that scenario, towards the canvas, when the door opened.

Jason stood in the doorway, emitting a long and disheartened sigh several seconds before Neal made it back to his feet and grabbed the paintbrush, establishing his stance in front of the painting too late to be believed. The mad dash had clearly been observed.

"What the hell were you doing?" Jason asked him, shaking his head in a mix of disappointment and disbelief.

Neal swallowed, glancing at the painting, which he currently detested, and then back to the doorway to Jason. He realized he was slightly out of breath. The paintbrush in his hand wavered slightly. He noticed Jason was holding a plate.

"Seriously," Jason said, walking into the room and pulling the door behind him closed firmly. With the simple gesture, Neal suddenly felt the room shrink in size. "What the hell were you doing?"

"N-nothing," Neal faltered slightly. He had never feared Jason before, but the last day had changed this. He'd always respected him, the weight he carried literally and figuratively, but had never felt the need to protect himself from him. He glanced at the canvas now and despite his earlier determination to defy this whole situation and to rebel, he suddenly felt relieved that he had at least started to paint. Jason coming back to a blank canvas after a couple of hours would likely not have bode well.

"Nothing?" Jason challenged. "Must have been something." He walked further into the room, glancing around as though looking for something to be out of place. As he reached Neal, he put the plate down on the table beside him. It was a sandwich. "I thought you might be hungry."

 _'_ _Not really'_ , was the initial response that Neal snapped in his head. Will instead responded, "Thanks."

Jason stood in front of the canvas, staring at it intently. He then turned to regard Neal skeptically. "You weren't painting when I came in here."

Neal paused, clearing his throat a little awkwardly before attempting a response. He went with denial. "I was. I –"

"Don't bullshit me," Jason interrupted, shaking his head disapprovingly.

"I'm not. I was painting. But the paint had to dry. I was just –"

"I said, do not bullshit me." Jason's gaze was intense. "Will…. Don't make this any harder on us than this has to be. You have a job to do. Just as we agreed upon. And I can't be coming in to check on you every five minutes."

"I know. And I'm doing it."

"You better _only_ be doing it." Jason glanced again at the canvas briefly before taking a step closer to Neal, closing the gap between them and meeting his gaze with intense eyes. "Let me be clear. You won't find a way out of this room."

"I'm not looking for one," Neal lied. He felt frozen in place.

Jason narrowed his eyes fleetingly, looking down as though to ensure Neal was still restrained as he'd been left. He then met Neal's eyes again. "If I come in here and you're doing anything put painting, I'll kick your ass. Understand?"

Neal frowned, but found himself nodding, eyes widening slightly.

"I mean it. You have one job to do."

Neal continued to nod. He'd never experienced this side of Jason before. It had always been transactional before, and pleasant. He'd delivered what he was told, when he was told, and with little commentary. He'd never been micromanaged, and as long as the piece was complete, as expected, and on time, he'd been praised.

"I'm serious," Jason told him emphatically, as though the nodding was a good enough answer. "Unless you want the beating of your life, don't touch anything in here other than your canvas and paint. Got it?"

"Can I touch the sandwich?" The words left Neal's mouth before he could stop them. It wasn't anything Will would have ever dared to say. Will didn't backtalk. But Neal hadn't been able to control himself. He found himself flinching even before Jason raised his hand. "Sorry," Neal said in a panic, bracing himself to be hit. "I'm sorry."

Jason stood there, hand raised, regarding Neal with a look that was a mix of frustration and anger but also confusion. But the blow didn't come. His arm faltered for a moment, and then he dropped it to his side. "Will," came the response in a sigh.

"I'm sorry," Neal repeated quickly, staring at the floor. He was confused but relieved that he hadn't been physically corrected for his insolence, at least yet. Though he'd never previously been subjected to it, he had quickly deduced that the stories of Jason's short temper were valid.

"This isn't ideal for either of us," Jason acknowledged, now rubbing a hand over his own jaw as though thinking over the situation. "But we have deadlines. I told you before – I don't want to hurt you." He paused and then gestured at the sandwich on the plate. "It's ham and cheese. Do you eat ham?"

Neal nodded, even though he didn't like ham. Even regular ham, never mind Peter's deviled ham. The thought of which now made him homesick, versus the usual reaction of nausea. He stared at the sandwich with a frown. He'd never felt emotion over deli meat before.

"So eat," Jason told him. "And then paint." He looked at the canvas again and took a deep breath. "I'll come back in an hour." He gave Neal another look. "And I mean what I said. If you're not painting –"

"I'll be painting," Neal told him mechanically, not wanting to hear the threat.

Jason studied him and then nodded. "Okay."

* * *

"And this is what we were able to recover at the post office."

Peter watched as Val emptied the contents of a manila envelope on to the desk in front of him. With a thump, the watch and cell phone of Neal dropped onto the wooden surface.

Peter stared at the two items, tongue-tied at first.

Neal had been so resistant to surveillance, to the watch, to any of this in the beginning. He viewed it as a form of cynicism of his loyalty and reliability. But it wasn't that.

"The warrant was pretty fast…" Val said, shrugging briefly. "Based on what your agent provided us, including the number to call once we were within a few feet of its location, there was enough probable cause."

"And nothing else was in the P.O. Box?" Peter asked, reaching for the phone.

"Nothing," she confirmed. "Just these two items."

Peter flipped open the phone, feeling a sense of heaviness in his chest. There was nothing much to go on from this. He reviewed quickly the recent calls from the phone's log, noting he was the majority of them, and then went to the text messages. Most of those were with Mozzie, given he'd recently 'cleansed' the phone, and those read as cryptic as Peter suspected. Except for the most recent one from the man, which read, 'Did you leave yet? Let me know if you've reconsidered.'

 _Reconsidered what_? Peter thought to himself briefly.

He didn't dwell on it, noting it as something to revisit once he knew Neal was safe.

"And the owner of the P.O. Box?" he asked, looking up.

Val nodded slowly, making a slight face. "That's where it gets interesting. It's actually registered to the same detective that was matched to the plates of the vehicle your agent ran. Though the annual registration fee hasn't been paid in two years."

He frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means they kept the box open in his name, but he hasn't actively been paying for it."

"Checking it?"

"That's harder to tell. But the box was empty other than your CI's belongings."

Peter frowned. That didn't give them much to go on. He glanced over beside him to Diana, who had been somewhat quiet. She looked tired and he no doubt assumed he appeared the same. "What have you told your local enforcements?"

"They're aware of the case," Val answered, tone mild. "Three suspects. Intentions not fully known. They're on alert."

"Three?" Peter frowned and shook his head. "You mean two."

"I mean three," she repeated, tone growing a bit stiffer. At Peter's silent frown, she continued. "I've been through the files and you've stated it yourself. Your informant had a relationship with these unsubs. Professional and maybe personal. You set him out on an agenda that…" She shrugged. "Might have opened up some possibilities."

"Are you implying that Neal is in on this?" Peter responded, incredulous.

"I'm not implying anything," Val answered, leaning back to cross her arms over her chest. "I'm simply reading the facts."

"What? Neal isn't in on this," Diana objected, glancing at her boss and then at the woman across the desk from them, her expression mirroring emotions of similar surprise to Peter. "That's not possible."

"Not possible?" Val raised her eyebrows. She regarded them both. "Is that so? You have an accomplished conman paired up with two other conmen. They all know each other and have worked together before. What do you think might happen?"

"Not that," Peter said firmly. "Neal is not an accomplice. This is against his will. If you heard the tapes, he—"

"With all due respect, Agent Burke," Val interjected. "We need to consider all possibilities here. I can't have my agents or my local law enforcement convinced that he is an innocent bystander when he might be capable of much more. Until you can prove otherwise, he's a suspect just like the other two, and I need my guys to proceed with caution."

"Agent Clarke," Peter opposed, keeping his voice law. "I know my CI."

"And I know what the file states," Val responded. "It also mentioned that a tracking anklet that normally ensures a strict radius was removed from this CI in order to facilitate his involvement in the case?" She gave Peter a look. "Did he object to having that taken off?"

Before Peter could respond again, they were interrupted by a ringing phone on her desk. She picked it up halfway through the second ring. After a cursory greeting, she held the phone against her chest and gave Peter and Diana a look. "I'm sorry. Would you excuse me for a minute?"

"Of course," Diana said first. She gave Peter a brief look, noticing her boss appeared frustrated. She pushed her chair back, getting to her feet. "Peter. Let's go."

Peter pushed his chair back as well, a little abruptly, and got to his own feet. He cast a frown towards Val Clarke, though her attention was to the phone and another, likely unrelated, case file on her desk.

As they exited her office, heading back towards a bullpen area of desks, most empty, Peter spoke adamantly. "He is not a suspect." With Neal's phone still in his hand, he flipped it open again.

Diana gave him a sympathetic nod. "Peter. We know that." She quickly realized she was going to need to control situation between the two FBI agencies.

"So she should take our word for it," Peter persisted, fingers scrolling through the phone. He paused and looked up briefly. "We know Neal. We know he's not a part of this. Not in the way she's insinuating."

"She's not insinuating anything," Diana told him. She could sense his frustration, and she knew it was imperative that they both stayed calm. If they started this relationship with the Vermont field office the wrong way, progressing with the case and finding Neal would prove that much harder.

"She is. She just said so."

"No, she only said what she knows. She doesn't know him. She only knows what's in the file."

"There's nothing on Neal in the file," Peter responded, slightly irritably. "Other than he's going under cover. His story isn't in there."

"I know," Diana answered. "That's my point. All she knows is that he's a criminal informant. She doesn't know _him_ or anything else about his arrangement."

"I told her. He's not—"

"Peter." She shook her head as she caught his eye. She could see his apprehension there; his deep-rooted worry. "She doesn't know us. In fact, she probably resents us simply because we're from New York." She watched Peter roll his eyes but noted he didn't disagree. "You've got to play nice."

"Play nice," Peter repeated, scoffing slightly. "That sounds like something I'd say to Neal." He frowned at the phone in his hand. "These texts with Mozzie. Jesus. It's like they're speaking in code."

"So take your own advice," she persisted. As he looked up again, she met his eye and gave him a solemn look in response. "Boss. Val isn't going to be very helpful if we start things out this way."

"What way is that? Explaining that Neal isn't part of this?"

"That will come out itself," Diana rationalized. "Peter, the truth is that Neal _is_ a criminal." She watched Peter's expression change to objection and held up her hand to cut him off before he could start. "We love him, but he is. You've personally arrested him. He's out on an agreement that requires him to be physically monitored at all times. Something he's currently exempt from." She shrugged. "That's what his papers say. What would you assume if it was the exact same scenario and another CI that you didn't know?"

He sighed. "Diana…"

"Don't 'Diana' me," she replied. "You know I'm right. You were concerned yourself about even putting him on this case. Remember? You told me. What would someone who doesn't even know him at all be thinking now?" she persisted. "Val's concern is going to be keeping her agents safe. Just like yours would be."

Peter looked ambivalent for a moment but then nodded, despite continuing to look frustrated. "Fine. You have a point."

"I know."

He gave her another look and then shook his head, letting out a deep breath. "Dammit."

"I know," she repeated, feeling similarly herself. It was hard to verbalize what they felt. "She'll realize he's good. That he's part of the team. And we'll find him, Peter."

He put his hands on his hip, taking a couple steps away, as though deep in thought and miles away. Frustration was clear in his posture. Then he turned back to Diana, seeming a bit more composed. "I want to see the airport. Have they checked the log of the airplanes there? And I want to see the post office."

She nodded. "When she's off the phone, let's go through next steps. We can make those our first stops."

Peter pressed his lips together, mouth forming a tight line. "Fine." He regarded the phone in his hand again. Neal's. Where the hell was Neal. He sighed.

Diana continued to keep her eyes on him, noticing his edginess. "You want a coffee? I'm going to look for coffee."

He shrugged. "Fine. Sure."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm good. Coffee sounds good."

She frowned at him slightly but then nodded and glanced over at Clarke's office for a moment where the woman was still on the phone before walking away in search of a pantry.

* * *

Neal wasn't sure how much time had passed.

That was going to be a problem. Not as big as the chain but still a problem. To not know the time of day was disorienting.

The lights were on, and he was unable to tell whether the other light source, that narrow opening or window on one end of the room, had changed to suggest a different time of the day. Its cast of light was dim when he first awakened, but since the real lights had been on he was unable to tell of any changes.

This bothered him. He knew enough time had passed from the sandwich that morning to call the passage of time hours. But he then questioned himself on whether it had even been morning at all when he awakened, and what substantiated hours.

Minutes could feel like an hour under the right circumstances.

All he knew was that as the time passed, he questioned it and tried to manage the emotions he felt. He wanted so much to just somehow implode and escape from this, but he knew he couldn't do that. This wasn't that simple. It wasn't a dream. And until he could do something, he had to manage Jason's expectations and avoid anger. Anger could cause consequences that would make it harder to find escape.

But time. Time was important. Day or night? It was important.

When Jason came back the next time, that was the main question on Neal's mind.

"What time is it?" he asked, as soon as the door opened after the click of the locks and the man entered the room.

Jason ignored the question, moving steadily towards the canvas instead. He observed the painting, which was now almost finished, and then shifted his position to pick up one of the pictures of the original that sat on the table. He studied that photo and then stared at the canvas again. "You done?"

"What time is it?" Neal repeated.

Again there was no response to that question.

Neal stared at Jason for a moment, watching the man scrutinize the painting. Then he glanced away from him, towards the door. It must be unlocked. He didn't see any way of locking the door from the inside.

His eyes flickered to Jason once more and then tentatively he took a step towards the door. However, there was no stealth movement in his current predicament, and the chains clearly snitched on his undertaking with a rattle against the floor.

At the noise, immediately Jason turned to him. "Hey," he said sharply. "Freeze, Will. Don't move."

"I'm not." Neal swallowed. He actually felt frozen. His spine felt stiff. The thud of his heart against his rib cage had to be audible.

Jason gave him one last glare and then gestured to the painting. "Answer me. Is this done?"

Neal regarded his latest piece with a soft sigh. It was nearly finished. He looked it over and ran a tired hand over his jaw. "Almost," he said.

"What do you mean, 'almost'?" Jason asked with clear exasperation.

Neal stared at his painting. The original artist, Klint, at times had claimed to be met by a spiritual force, and said that the paintings were created _through_ her. She said she didn't even know what the ending results were meant to look like. She would hold séances to make contact with these 'high masters.'

Neal felt somewhat similar now and sympathized with the late artist. But this force wasn't spiritual. It was physical.

He turned back to Jason to answer his question before the man had to ask him again. Jason didn't like repeating himself, and he'd already reminded Neal of that. "I mean almost. I just need to sign it."

"Then sign it."

"When it's dry."

"Which is when?" Jason demanded.

Neal frowned at the tone of his voice. Jason's patience seemed paper-thin. "Jason. I told you I needed a day for this one."

"And you've had all day," Jason responded. Casting one more look at the canvas, and dropping a photo of the original back on the table, he took a step closer towards Neal. "It's either done or it's not."

"It's done. I should be able to sign it within the hour," Neal told him. He paused. "What time is it?" he asked again.

"It doesn't matter," Jason answered stiffly.

"It does," Neal insisted, trying to keep his tone mellow. It was hard.

"What does the time of day have to do with you getting your job done?" Jason retorted skeptically. "That seems like an unnecessary detail to me."

Neal swallowed. Unnecessary detail. Like phones. And watches. And shoes. And socks. He wanted to clench his fists but didn't.

Jason stepped closer to the canvas again, peering at the work, inspecting it. "This is the same one as last time, right?"

"Yeah." Neal watched his captor cautiously, who now seemed completely focused on the work again. He felt the urge to take a step away again.

"Exactly the same?"

"No." Neal ran a slightly shaking hand through his hair. "Same series. Different piece." Continuing to watch Jason's focus on the piece, he made up his mind and took another step towards the door, cursing again at the chain, which betrayed his movement once again with an obvious noise against the floor.

"Will," Jason snapped, turning to him again and pointing a finger in his direction. "God dammit. Do not move, or I'm going to kick your ass. Hold on, will you?"

Neal felt conflicted. On one hand he imagined running, making it through the door, the chain being just long enough for him to do so, and then somehow slamming the door behind him and locking it. But he knew reality would find a few flaws in that concept. One, he wouldn't be fast enough. Jason, while focused on the art, seemed exceedingly focused on 'Will' at the same time. It was also unlikely the chain was long enough to accomplish what he imagined.

So he stayed put, glaring down at the chain, currently his largest nemesis.

"This is good," Jason was saying, finishing his inspection of the canvas. "Just sign it. If I can ship it today, we're in decent shape."

Neal nodded, not moving his eyes from the chain. In the brief silence that passed in the room, Neal thought back to the first day he learned about this case. Back when it was really more of a Cyber Crimes case than White Collar. Peter brought him on the stakeout in the van to 'get his thoughts' and at that point, Neal had been skeptical, more annoyed at being forced to sit in a van than focused on the case itself, though aspects of it hinted at familiarity, even just from that initial case file. Still, at that point, he had no clue what connection he would have to the case, and never would have predicted this current predicament.

He started to feel anxiety resurface.

He wondered what Peter and the team were thinking now. Whether they were actively trying to locate him. The last coordinates they had were the post office. There wasn't a single clue from that point on where to go next. For all they knew, perhaps they'd gotten back on a plane or driven miles away. There was nothing to hint at any of those alternatives.

Maybe his disappearance and going off grid was like hitting a wall. Maybe they would be forced to focus on other angles of the case. They needed evidence to close this out, to find Graham and Jason. Hughes was eager to solve this one. While most of the evidence was here in this room with him, maybe they would try to redirect their attention to more obvious artifacts, like what was at the warehouse.

The warehouse would give them evidence, but not a location.

Neal had to get a message out somehow. He had to get out of here. He had to get this chain off.

These thoughts were so loud in his head that he didn't notice Jason speaking to him again.

Not until the man was directly in his face, snapping a finger in front of him. "Hey." He then gave him a slightly push to his shoulder. "Look at me."

Neal was slightly startled at the contact initially, as his reverie had briefly transported him from the room and he'd missed the movement of Jason from the canvas to his side. He masked that reaction quickly and then tried not to scowl, raising his eyes finally from the floor and the shackle to meet his captor's stare. He said nothing.

Neal wondered what was in Jason's pockets. Did he have a phone on him? Or any sort of tools? Weapons? Neal's fingers curled into his palms as he considered when he might find an outlet to attempt checking this.

"Did you hear me?" Jason demanded, brow furrowing. "You better listen when I speak to you."

He couldn't try anything now. Right now was too risky. Jason, who already was exhibiting an inclination towards edginess and impatience, was staring at him intently, expecting a response.

"I asked you," Jason continued in a brusque tone, "to name the second piece."

Neal's brow furrowed. "What?"

"The second piece I showed you on the plane," Jason persisted, tone waning in patience. He poked a finger into Neal's shoulder hard, emphasizing the syllables of his words with the physical contact. "Name it."

The plane. Neal thought back to their trip here. He immediately knew the answer, but was frustrated with how this was playing out. He was not here simply to do their bidding under duress like a bullied, defenseless child. He also couldn't simply just move from piece to piece like this. It didn't work that way. The change in styles, in approach, in mood… He couldn't just flip one switch off and another on so quickly.

His mind was racing.

"What time is it?" Neal asked instead.

"Jesus, if you ask me that one more time…." Jason let out a low, deep sigh. "Will. Don't make this harder on yourself than it has to be. I told you, you do your job and we get through this. Answer my question."

"I just need to know what time it is," Neal insisted, knowing he couldn't give up finding out. He kept his tone unrelenting but meek enough that maybe he wouldn't cause Jason to lose his patience.

With a glare and then another sigh, Jason quickly glanced at the watch on his wrist. "Fine. It's six. Okay?"

Six o'clock. Neal processed this. He had met Jason the previous night at eight. Nearly a whole day had passed. He couldn't comprehend whether he felt that passage of time or not. He knew he'd lost time in the hours he had been unconscious. And over the course of today, he had really focused on exploring the room but also completing the piece. And Jason had left him completely uninterrupted until now.

Hours had passed.

The lighting in the room had not changed at all during the course of the day. And he noted he heard nothing from outside the room. No footsteps above or around him. No cars. No dogs. Nothing. It was hard to mark the passage of time without some sort of indication of it passing or some sort of frame of reference.

"So you have your goddamn time of day, Will. Now name the piece," Jason repeated his ask tersely.

Neal spoke softly as he complied. "Magritte." Then he added, "A variation of one of his Son of Man works."

"That's right." Jason seemed to calm slightly.

"You know we have something in common with him," Neal said slowly, tilting his head to the side slightly, thoughtfully.

"Here we go with the history lesson again," Jason answered with a sigh and a roll of his eyes. "You already told me on the plane. You said one of his parents committed suicide, right? Well, I can't say I have any experience with that, nor do I really care."

"His mother," Neal confirmed. "But that's not what I was referring to." He cleared his throat. "Magritte was a con himself. In the late forties, he and his brother produced fake Picassos, Braques and Chiricos." He paused. "He also later expanded his fraud to include printing of forged banknotes."

"No kidding." Jason observed Neal with a frown for a moment and then simply shook his head. "So I guess we're in good company forging his piece. Takes one to know one." He then paused and added, "How the hell do you know all this stuff?"

Neal shrugged. He shifted in his stance uncomfortably, realizing he'd been on his feet most of the day and that his legs ached.

"Maybe after we get through the paintings we can try for the banknotes or bonds," Jason responded a bit sarcastically. "But right now, I have my current priorities to worry about."

Neal stayed quiet at the suggestion of forging bonds. The one crime Peter had caught him on. His stomach turned just slightly.

"So how much time do you need?" Jason asked. "For this one?"

Neal's brow furrowed further. He thought back to the piece.

"Same one I showed you on the plane." Jason paused. "I'll bring the copies of it to you. But take a guess."

Neal thought it over. "Same amount of time," he told him. "Maybe a little longer. Tomorrow." He glanced over at the table of supplies. "I need to check on the paints…" There was a lot of paint, and it was dated, but still, to be sure…

"Without a doubt, what you need is there. Trust me."

Trust. What a concept. But pushing sarcasm aside, Neal considered whether questioning the supplies was an opening. If he could delay the work, and buy some time to garner more materials, maybe he would find an opportunity. But Jason wasn't an amateur. Going that route might not go so well. "If I have what I need, then I can do it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Jason echoed. He looked a little less than thrilled. "Tomorrow, what time?"

Neal wanted to retort that it was tough to commit to a deadline when he had no clue what time it was around him, but refrained. Willy wouldn't say something like that. "I mean…"

"Meaning," Jason continued, "that you'll start right now. You're not here on vacation, after all. If you start now, how much time do you need?"

Neal considered objecting but knew it wouldn't fare well for him. So he just simply nodded. He could give an illusion of starting now. "Then maybe tomorrow afternoon." He tried to keep his tone neutral. It was difficult.

Jason didn't seem to buy it. He gave Neal a skeptical look. "What? You need a break or something?"

"No," Neal objected. "I'll start now."

"You don't sound so convinced."

Neal felt uncomfortable at Jason's intense glare. "I am," he insisted. "Besides, " with a brief hand gesture to the rest of the room, he persisted, "What else am I going to do here?"

"Exactly," Jason snapped. "What else."

Neal maintained eye contact, feeling his heart beat in his chest with slight unease. He had to stay on Jason's good side. In order to do that, he had to channel Willy. He had to watch his tone, his expressions. He had to be more submissive. He knew this.

Jason pointed at the Klint piece, arm hovering in the air. "I'll get you the copies of the second piece. If this," he emphasized the word with a jab in the air towards the canvas, "isn't signed when I get back, then you're going to be sorry. Understand?"

Neal nodded, though it pained him not to retort with something different. "I understand."

"I'll be back in a few minutes."

Neal stayed still as the man walked past time, towards the door. He hesitated for a moment but then spoke up. "Jason?" he asked.

Jason turned just in front of the door. "What?" He looked slightly exasperated, and his tone was similarly frustrated.

"Can I get a glass of water?" Neal asked. He felt it was a reasonable request. He'd had a little bit to drink earlier, scooping water from the faucet in the bathroom to his lips a few times over the course of the day. But the only other liquid he had available to him was currently soaking a handful of used paintbrushes.

"Water," Jason repeated. "Fine."

"And—"

"And?" Jason cut him off, shaking his head. "What do you mean 'and'? I'm not room service, Will."

"Paper," Neal said quickly. "Pencil and paper." At Jason's stern look, he continued. "I need to sometimes just sketch some things first. Before I…" he waved his hand towards the canvas. "Before I do the final version. Especially signatures."

Jason regarded him for a moment, working his jaw, and then just nodded. "Fine. I'll see what I can find."

Neal watched Jason leave the room, merely frowning as the door closed and the sound of the locks turning came next. He wasn't sure why he'd remained hopeful for a few seconds that maybe the other man wouldn't lock the door while gone for a couple of minutes. Of course he would lock the door. And even if he hadn't, the chain restraint would barely let Neal through the doorway. Any attempt at freedom would be futile.

He needed other tools.

Jason's threat lingered in his mind, and he turned back to the Klint piece to assess a signature. The chain clanked against the floor as he brought himself closer to it. On the table a few feet away was a photo of the original rendering, a view of the work that he had referenced during his composition to remind himself of certain hues and aspects of the painting. He studied it now, focused on the signature. His eyes scanned it over and over again, perfecting it in his memory.

He then picked up the paintbrush nearest to him with a sigh.

* * *

TBC


	27. Chapter 27

Back in New York, Jones was anxious to make a crack in the case.

He would admit he felt slightly guilty of the fact he had gotten a solid six hours of sleep the previous night. He knew Peter and Diana certainly had not, and he was also sympathetic to their car ride, which he was certain likely felt much longer than five hours with tensions high and fatigue understandable at that time of night. At the same time, he knew he shouldn't feel guilty and that they wouldn't want him to. All three of them in Vermont wouldn't be effective.

He'd arrived to the office early that morning, just before seven, and though he observed a few other agents already present, he found himself making the first pot of coffee for the office.

The first thing he did after settling in was to pour through the reports they had available on the case. There was the original file, predominantly gathered by Cyber Crimes, and then the subsequent additional files they had gathered since taking on the case.

He found the address and few names Peter had left as additional details from Neal on Messier's old office and acquaintances and started a search for a paper trail on those clues.

Then he focused on the original files.

He'd already been through this pages multiple times over the last week, but as he scanned the words and photos carefully, sitting at his desk with utter focus on just what was in front of him, he was hopeful he would pick up on _something_ they might have missed.

After an hour, that review proved somewhat fruitless, and he was a cup and a half of coffee in, so he decided to head to the warehouse as Peter had suggested.

He was almost thankful for the drive there. It kept his mind concentrated while giving him a slight break from the case. Even away from the office, at home trying to fall asleep the night before, he couldn't stop thinking of the details and wondering where Neal was at that moment. It didn't make for the most restful sleep. Focusing on the traffic gave him at least a temporary reprieve.

He wasn't sure what to expect from the warehouse, but he knew it was a necessary stop for him that day. Neal had spent enough time there that it was possible he'd uncovered something. He hoped so, but couldn't help but also simply hope Caffrey had been productive while there. He understood Peter had let him spend time there unsupervised, and while he felt bad second-guessing his colleague, Neal and unsupervised sometimes didn't lead to FBI expected results.

The building itself was just as Peter had described. It was a brick structure, rather ordinary, that took up the corner of an industrial block. On the inside, he moved through security quickly, flashing his badge and exchanging a few words with the guard. He was guided down a hallway with tall ceilings and into a broad cement-made room by a young, suit-clad agent named Stan. Jones took in the agent's appearance quickly. Twenty something, red-hair, overly polite.

When they entered the room of interest, Jones stopped dead in his tracks. He whistled at the sight in front of him.

Stan chuckled a little, the corners of his mouth smirking slightly. "I had a similar reaction," he said. "It's a lot."

"A lot is an understatement," Jones responded, shaking his head just slightly. The volume of paintings in the room was almost overwhelming. His eyes scanned the room. There were frames and canvases everywhere it seemed. This must have been heaven to Caffrey.

"Over two hundred," Stan confirmed. He also looked around the room. "We haven't touched the room since your colleagues were here. Other than to… you know…" He cleared his throat. "Uncover the cameras."

"Uncover the cameras…" Jones echoed in slight confusion. His eyes spotted the equipment in the corners of the room, mounted high. "Do I even want to know…?" he murmured.

"Anyway," Stan continued. "There was a computer here somewhere…" He walked into the room, navigating around one of the tables of work. Jones watched him while remaining stationary. "Oh good, here it is. I wasn't sure if one of them took it with them." Stan flipped open the laptop and waited for the screen to register. "I believe this is where it's all inventoried, and I think he was taking notes…"

"Yeah, I'll want to see all that," Jones responded as he continued to look around. He walked further into the room, and it became clear to him that Neal had some sort of organizational system. The pieces were clearly sectioned off into different parts of the room, and he could immediately see it was by the style of work. Neal had been diligent here. He had to give him credit. Despite the volume, it was obviously very systematically arranged.

He glanced over at Stan and could see the young agent logging into the laptop. Looking back at the excess of art, he walked past each section, noting the array of work within each section and the variety within each category.

He then stopped in front of one of the sections of art and frowned. This section was not like the others. For one, it was much smaller, probably around ten pieces or less. It wasn't the number of pieces which struck him as odd, it was instead that the works were definitely not from the same period or category of art. It was a cornucopia of styles. He frowned.

"Here you go," Stan said with a final tap on the keyboard. "You should be all set."

"Thanks," Jones answered as he turned back towards him. "I appreciate it."

"No problem, sir," Stan answered with a polite smile. "I'll be back in the security office where I met you if you need anything."

Jones nodded and watched the agent leave as he walked towards the laptop on the table. There was a chair by one of the tables he passed and he pulled it along with him, metal leg dragging against the floor. He then dropped into the chair, settled himself in front of the laptop with a sigh.

'Alright, Caffrey,' he thought to himself. 'Show me what you got.'

He was just about to start reading through the open file on the screen when his phone began to ring.

He looked at the screen and frowned.

* * *

A trip to the post office, and to the airport, had proved fruitless.

Peter couldn't help but feel frustrated as he and Diana settled back at the Burlington field office, unsure of next steps. It was getting late in the day. Agent Clarke had provided them with a conference room, noticeably across the floor from her office, for them to set up and use as their own space during their time in Vermont. It was here Peter sat, deep in thought, alone while Diana had taken a walk to find a pantry with coffee.

He stared at the table in front of him. At Neal's phone, at the pile of files, and at the emptiness of it all.

Neal never should have been on this case. He knew it. From the moment he went off course on the original stakeout, to the other clear extenuating circumstances and conflicts of interest, to the entire reality of them not even knowing enough about Jason to go through with it all. They never should have allowed this undercover trip.

They'd sent Neal out with little to no plan, no security, and no backup.

As his handler, Peter knew it was his job to protect his CI. Neal put himself in harm's way often enough. He didn't need the Bureau to exacerbate that even further.

He sighed, thinking back upon the multiple conversations he'd had with Neal leading up to the case. He'd had so many reservations, and yet somehow here they were. Peter told himself now that he would never ignore his instinct ever again.

While he felt weighed down with worry and guilt, he tried to convince himself that there was a possibility that everything was fine. Neal had lost his initial way of contacting them, sure. But that didn't mean things weren't progressing as planned, and that he couldn't find another way of contacting them and reengaging.

He then thought back to Clarke's insinuation that Neal might be a suspect or somehow involved in all of this. As though he had suddenly switched sides upon arriving to Vermont and now might be aligned with those that they were investigating.

Peter's gut wrenched at that thought; not at the possibility of it, which he disagreed with, but at the accusation itself. While it was Neal's own doing and decisions that caused him to be an ex-convict, something which Peter had sternly reminded him on more than one occasion, he had countless times in his current arrangement proven just how good he was at the core. But that good didn't exist on paper like his past did. That past would haunt him. Just like it was now. Clarke didn't see him as a partner. She saw him as a suspect.

Peter had seen the raw sides of Neal when he was at his most vulnerable, and in those moments nothing but good shined through. In fact, he realized many times now that when Neal got himself in trouble it was more often because he thought he was doing something to help. He often compromised himself for a case.

Sighing, Peter stood from his seat in the conference room and walked over to where he had deposited his briefcase a few chairs away.

He was just reaching into his bag when Diana returned from her coffee run.

"What's that?" she asked, placing a mug of coffee in front of him on the table.

He looked down at his hand and at the small recording device in it. The device he'd used with Neal those days ago. "Thanks." He stared at the coffee.

"What is it?" she repeated.

He glanced up at his agent before responding, pressing his lips together briefly. "Remember when I had him upstairs at the office?"

She smirked. "Yeah. You mean when you had me play his waitress?" She took a seat at the table beside him, sipping from her own mug.

"Waitress?" Peter echoed, giving her a slight look of disapproval. "Diana, I don't often ask you to—"

"Boss…" she interjected, giving him a chuckle and a slight smirk. "I'm kidding. Whatever you need, which includes what you think he needs, I'm available. It was just a sandwich. I didn't mind."

He gave her a small smile back. "Right. Thanks." He placed the recording device on the table. "Well, the reason I brought him there was to avoid being interrupted and to get him to focus. It's harder than you'd think to do that in my office."

"Get him to focus on what?"

"I wanted him to tell me everything from his past experience with Messier and Jason ten years ago."

She raised her eyebrows. "Some feat… And did he tell you?"

"Some of it," he responded with a sigh. "I was planning to listen to it again. To see if there was anything I might have missed. Unfortunately it's not more than fifteen minutes or so but… Given we don't have much else as a lead…"

She nodded slowly, her eyes moving from her boss to the recording device on the table. "Mind if join you?"

"Would appreciate it actually," Peter answered. "Maybe you'll hear something I didn't."

"Me? Boss, if you can't crack the Caffrey code," she started, "then I'm not sure I can, but I'm happy to try."

"Try. We don't have much more to go on in the moment," he repeated the sentiment, a little cynically. He took a sip of the coffee, savoring the warm liquid and its caffeine, before reaching for the device. He started by rewinding the tape.

Diana watched him. "How often do you record him?"

"Not often," he answered, listening to the whir of the tape. It clicked at the end of the tape, fully rewound. "As you'll quickly pick up on, he wasn't exactly thrilled."

She gave a small nod, not surprised at that fact. Then she grew more somber, thinking it over. "Will he mind…?"

Peter frowned as he looked up to meet the eye of his agent. "What?"

"Will he mind if I listen to this?"

Peter seemed to consider that for a moment, his lips forming a thin line as he paused before responding. "No, he won't," he finally decided. "He knew it was for the case. And that it's my call."

She shrugged and then nodded, accepting the response. She leaned forward to rest her arms on the table, wrapping her hands around the warm coffee mug as Peter pressed play on the device, setting it between them.

The tape started with a little bit of static and then a small thud, likely the device being placed on the table after being turned on.

Then Peter's voice came over the line, clear audio and firm tone. _"Why did Adam introduce you to Jason?"_

Neal's voice responded a couple seconds later. _"Because Jason, and I guess Messier, were looking for some help."_ Then there was a long pause before Neal continued, voice taking on a bit of a whine. _"Peter. Is that really necessary?"_

 _"_ _Yes,"_ responded Peter's voice, unsympathetic to the hesitation.

There was another long pause. Then Neal spoke again. _"Peter, I'll tell you everything. If I can get a sandwich."_

The tape clicked and went silent.

Diana frowned and looked over at her boss. She knew that wasn't the whole tape, but she was a little surprised by the beginning of it.

"That's when I called you," Peter explained, taking a deep breath and exhaling.

"Seriously, Boss? You gave in pretty quick. You're usually a little stricter than that."

"Oh, that was the _recorded_ instance he asked to eat," Peter answered, giving her a small, wry smile. "You missed the ten minutes of unrecorded dialogue before this.

"Thank God," she mumbled.

Then the tape rustled again with static before clearing and voices picked up again, starting up again essentially in the same spot as before from a subject perspective.

Diana listened for a few minutes, noticing Neal had a different edge to his voice, and that he kept trying to redirect the conversation to other topics. And quite skillfully, she had to admit, though unsurprisingly Peter wasn't keen to be distracted and with equal adeptness steered him back each time.

"He seems nervous," she said softly.

Peter gave a "hm" in response, focused on the tape as it continued to replay the discussion from the other day. He'd almost forgotten how hesitant Neal had been to initiate talking about this part of his past, and thought back to that moment in the conference room with him. He shifted in his seat as Neal's voice came over the device, tone soft and even.

 _"_ _Peter, I was just thinking…. Are you sure that maybe I shouldn't sign something before talking about this?"_

Not just nervous, Diana realized. Terrified. She glanced at Peter to gauge his reaction, but the man was focused on the tape and somewhat expressionless. She recognized how Neal must have second-thoughts each time he opened up. He had been prosecuted already based on the information the FBI collected. If he shared more information, than how would he secure that it wouldn't be used against him the wrong way?

As she considered this, Peter's voice responded.

 _"_ _Neal, I know who you are. I know you understand right and wrong. And anything you tell me today about a decade again before I even met you isn't going to change my opinion on that. Got it?"_

Diana continued to watch Peter's expression as his voice played over the device. She had to admit, he had a way of dealing with Neal that…. just worked. In the exchange she had just listened to, with Neal trying different elusive tactics to discuss something different, most would have probably lost their patience. She was starting to feel agitated herself each time Neal tried to change the subject. Peter didn't react to that. He targeted the cause of Neal's tactic and addressed that head-on instead.

And it worked.

 _"_ _Alright,"_ Neal answered slowly on the recording.

Peter's voice returned the tentative acquiescence with a simple question. " _Am I your friend?"_

 _"_ _You're a suit,"_ was the curt response.

"What?" Diana let out her remark out loud in surprise. She furrowed her brow, looking at Peter. "He really said that?"

Peter was frowning as well, but didn't respond.

"A suit?" Diana persisted.

Peter's voice played over the tape. _"Look at me."_

Diana felt a slight chill at the tone used, suddenly realizing she was witnessing something private between them. Peter didn't speak that way to the rest of them. Similar to Peter's reference in the car to Neal's demeanor at his home versus at the office, this was a small insight into their relationship behind figurative and literal closed doors.

 _"_ _Suit or not,"_ Peter continued on the tape, _"I'll feel the same way after you talk as I did before. I mean it. So no sugarcoating. No hiding anything. Today I need to know everything. For the case. Understand?"_

A short pause and then, _"Okay, Peter."_

 _"_ _Good. Now try again."_

As though those were the magic words, Neal on the tape started to speak, this time less restrained. His words flowed naturally, as though being recorded was forgotten.

Diana frowned and couldn't help but continue to glance at Peter while trying to focus on Neal's words. She'd never heard Neal speak so openly.

Peter simply remained stoic, eyes locked to the recording device.

* * *

Magritte. Magritte.

The name repeated itself in Neal's mind.

Brush in hand, he stared at the canvas in front of him. He'd forced it not to remain blank, and it featured an initial sketch of the work in demand. But barely. He knew a blank canvas would mean trouble if Jason came in. But he just…. He was having a hard time forcing it.

He stared long and hard, not blinking, not until enough time had passed that he started to lose focus and almost see something in front of him, focus starting to cross. Then he blinked, squeezing his eyes shut and with his free hand rubbing at his eyelids, trying to push away the dryness he felt.

He wasn't sure exactly how long it had been since Jason had left him alone again. Time again proved to be frustrating to track.

Regardless of the time that passed, he really didn't feel like channeling another artist that evening. Forcing himself to paint was not easy. Even when he _wanted_ to paint, it didn't always come easily if things were on his mind. He had to be in the right element and frame of mind. And in this current moment, most of his thoughts pointed to the wrong frame of mind.

He didn't want to paint.

He didn't want to be here.

Jason had complied with his water request earlier, but had forgotten or ignored his request for a pencil or paper, which while in his presence then, Neal didn't have the courage to ask him for again just yet. He accepted the water, but with slight disappointment, which he masked; the water had arrived in a flimsy plastic cup. Neal had earnestly been thirsty and did want a legitimate vessel for a drink of water versus what he could get from cupped hands under the bathroom sink's faucet, but he'd also been secretly hoping for a real _glass_ of water. One he could break and potentially use as a weapon.

It was a hope for a scenario that yet again wasn't well thought out. Possessing a weapon was one step, but it was only a very preliminary one. Jason could easily still overpower him. And then there was the issue of the chain. The glass wouldn't help him with that.

It didn't matter now anyway. Now that he was only given a flimsy plastic cup, none of that was an option.

Neal urged himself to stop spending time on considerations that were futile.

But all he could think of revolved around escaping.

This hell hole.

Frustrated, he dropped (almost threw) the paintbrush in his hand on the table, watching it bounce once against the hard surface with a thud. He glanced only momentarily at the print version of the Magritte painting that was in plain view in front of him on the table, care of Jason. His eyes scanned the supplies in front of him. The small containers of paint, labeled and dated and meticulously arranged. The organization had been surprisingly effective and easy to reference. That made him angry, and he resisted a recurring urge to swipe his hand across the supplies and to destroy the organization.

It made him wonder how long they'd been planning this.

The supplies… The organization…

Had this crossed Jason's mind as soon as they reconnected? Were they gathering supplies in a hope to complete the forgeries by another means, and then he came along as a willing participant in their scheme? An easy victim who possessed the skillset they needed? Had he, while targeting them, in reality allowed himself to so easily become a pawn?

Rage resurfaced.

He felt angry. Angry at his situation but also angry at himself, because he'd been the one persisting this was the right next step in the case, even against the cautious better judgment of Peter. Of course Peter knew better. Was he finally learning that? And the events since going undercover… He was still stewing over the turn of events at the post office, furious that he would have fallen for such an unbelievable tale.

He walked away from the table, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to take deep breaths.

"Stupid," he chided himself irritably. "So stupid."

In getting himself out of previous precarious situations, which was more often than he'd care to admit, Neal often used his ability to smoothly manipulate people and the situation. But in this scenario, being by himself for hours at a time, there was no one to con. No one to sweet-talk. And in the brief moments he did get with Jason, the man was on edge and impatient. He had no interest in talking or even spending more than the required few minutes with him.

Pacing for a few moments, glaring down at the audible chains that followed him as the dragged against the concrete floor. While cursing them, Neal tried to calm himself. Despite best attempts, he was starting to feel a wave of despair, and emotion, that wasn't going to get him anywhere. He clenched his hands tighter as he walked around the room, trying to keep his feelings in check. A moment ago he'd felt like being destructive. Now he felt like he was close to tears.

It took him back to his first night in prison.

It was a feeling he didn't want to feel. Thoughts he didn't want to think.

His breaths started to get shallower, and he fought it. He tried to block out the sounds of the chains as he paced.

You can do this, he told himself. You're Willy. Neal will be back when this is over. This is Willy.

He swallowed down the negativity of despair, trying to push those thoughts away despite feeling painfully inadequate in this scenario and what he had at his disposal. He started to look around the room again, at the inventory of what he did have. He had considered trying to dismantle part of the cot. That might have to be a project for later in the evening, as he did not want to get caught with that in process.

He looked across the room again for more ideas.

The table itself, on which the supplies sat, was wooden. He wasn't going to be able to do much with that.

He took a deep breath, exhaling it impatiently, running both hands through his hair as he made another circle around the room. He stopped in the corner of the room, and then he dropped down to crouch. He peered down at the lowest part of the wall, where he had earlier today marked a simple roman number 'I' on the wall with black paint. He stared at it, again finding himself not blinking. He felt the need to track the time somehow.

He was contemplating the potential benefit of capturing each day split between AM and PM. Given the lack of real daylight and the challenge of knowing what time it was, he felt that this detail could help if he marked when Jason told him the time. He might not always get that detail but where he did…

He was mulling this over, still on his haunches facing the wall, when he heard the sound of the lock on the door turning, a sound that was becoming too familiar.

He scrambled up to his feet, cursing again the sound of the chains, and rushed back over towards the canvas and supplies. He was just scanning the table for he discarded paintbrush when he heard the door opening. He spun around to face it, feeling a déjà vu to the earlier time Jason had returned.

Jason entered the room and closed the door behind him. His expression was solemn, a slight frown on his face, as he walked further into the room and approached Neal and the canvas.

His focus was entirely on the canvas, staring at it. Neal stood by cautiously as his pulse started to race. He was well aware that he hadn't done much yet. The silence in the room was deafening. The man stood just a couple feet from him, but it was though frustration and ire was radiating off of him.

Another beat paced.

"Will," Jason finally spoke, voice aggravated. His head tuned away from the canvas and his eyes met Neal's. "This might as well be blank."

"Blank?" Neal's heart was beating hard in his chest. The last hour (had it been an hour?) of frustration, and thinking, and pacing, and cursing had all been in lieu of delivering. "It's not."

"Do you know what time I was last here?" Jason asked him icily. He took a step closer to him.

Neal opened his mouth to speak but hesitated before voicing his response. He had to steady himself and channel Will. When he trusted his voice, he responded, "Six." That was the time Jason had told him. It was the only reference of time he had.

"And do you know what time it is now?" Jason persisted, taking another step towards him.

"No, I don't," Neal answered, more sarcastically than he intended. Then against better judgment, while maintaining eye contact he added, "I seem to have misplaced my watch."

Jason's lips curled back at the brashness of response and without warning, he closed the gap between them, delivering a solid punch to Neal's gut. Not expecting the blow, Neal hadn't braced for it, and he let out a choking breath as the wind was knocked out of him, doubling over in pain and instinctively wrapping an arm across his middle.

Jason was unsympathetic to the reaction and grasped Neal by the shoulder, forcing him to stand upright. He roughly pushed him back towards the wall closest to them and held him there, pinned beneath his hand. "Look at me, Will." He paused only for a few seconds. "Look at me. Hey!" he said firmly. "What'd I tell you when I was here before?"

Neal tried to think. His mind suddenly felt frozen. He felt pain. He was still caught off guard from the punch and his ribcage was burning from the impact. He now had the wall behind his back, hard and uncomfortable as Jason pushed him against it with what felt like all his weight. He realized he was breathing hard, brow furrowed, as he stared back at Jason with a glare.

"What did I tell you?" Jason repeated, voice growing more irritated. "Answer me."

"I don't know," Neal answered. His mind raced. He tried to find an appropriate answer. "Uh…. Magritte."

"Magritte," Jason muttered. "No." He shook his head. "No." He shook Neal from his hold on his shoulders, briefly but roughly. "That canvas is blank, Will. You've been in here for two hours. Two goddamn hours."

"It's not." Neal did the math. Two plus six. It was eight o'clock at night. "It's not blank."

Two hours? He grew distracted by that. Had it really been two hours?

"Why's it not further along, Will?" Jason demanded. He shook him again. "Answer me."

Neal squirmed slightly under Jason's hold and then slowly formed his answer. "It… It took a while to start… Jason, I had to prime the canvas… And…" He cleared his throat and forced earnest eye contact with his captor. "It wasn't dry yet. It needs to dry before I start. I … I did as much as I could so far."

"Prime the canvas," Jason echoed impatiently. "Start now? Well that sounds convenient…" His tone was dry. "And you know what, Will? I don't believe you."

"Jason, I swear. I had to –"

"Shut. Up," Jason snapped, emphasizing the words.

Neal shut up. Anything he said made it worse. If possible Jason seemed to be growing angrier.

Keeping one hand firmly on Neal's shoulder, Jason raised his other and pointed a finger directly in Neal's face. "Earlier today I warned you," he said. "I told you that if I come in here and you're doing _anything_ put painting, I'd kick your ass. Remember that?"

"N-no," Neal objected, though he did remember.

"I think you do. So guess what's going to happen now?"

"I was painting," Neal objected, his own voice sounding a little bit desperate, even to his own ears. "I was, Jason. Please. This one's not hard – if you come back in –"

"Come back?" Jason echoed incredulously. "Are you hearing yourself right now, Will?" He shook his head. "I did _leave_ so you could do this one that _isn't so hard_ , and now I am back. And you've done jack shit, am I right?" He raised his eyebrows, insisting on the answer. "After two hours?"

"No," Neal protested, shaking his head as well. He lifted his hands up, as though to maintain his blamelessness. "That's not it, I've actually—"

"Actually done nothing," Jason interjected. He narrowed his eyes. "Don't lie to me, Will. If it's something I hate, it's lying. It seems that in our decade apart, you may have forgotten what it means to meet a deadline, huh? Well, let me give you a reminder."

Neal was about to protest again, shaking his head, but wasn't able to get a word in before Jason's fist landed again squarely against his ribs.

* * *

"You let him sass you a lot," Diana mused.

"Huh?" Peter looked up at her at the words, breaking eye contact with the recording device briefly.

Diana raised her eyebrows. "You heard me," she said. "I'm actually surprised."

"I just wanted him to talk," Peter answered with a shrug. He shifted in the conference room chair and returned his attention to the equipment. "He didn't want to talk. So I'd deal with some off-topic remarks so long as he did. It's a give and take."

"Give and take…. Off-topic remarks," she echoed in slight amusement. She nodded. "Alright. Sure, Peter. But my mother would call that sass."

Peter gave her a small sarcastic smirk at the comment and shook his head as they quieted to continue listening to the recorded exchange between Peter and Neal.

This continued for only a minute longer until Peter's phone began to rang. He quickly retrieved it from his pocket and looked at the ID.

"It's Jones," he told Diana as he quickly flipped it open, providing the gruff greeting into the receiver, "It's Burke."

"Boss," Jones voice came over the line.

"I'm putting you on speaker phone, Jones," Peter responded. "Just me and Diana." He pressed the relevant button on the phone and put it down between them on the table.

"Hey, Clinton," Diana greeted.

"Hey, guys," Jones returned, voice almost hesitant. "How are things going up there?"

Diana glanced at her boss, who looked conflicted. "Uh, things are going," she offered quickly. "No real updates to be honest. What about on your end?"

"Yeah, about that…" Jones answered slowly, voice somewhat hesitant. "Uh… Where to start…" There was some rustling of papers in the background.

"Jones," Peter spoke stiffly. "What do you have?"

"First off, I got some news back on Adam."

"And?"

Jones sighed and then continued, "Well, the reason it took a while is that his name wasn't Adam. It was Matthew." He paused again. "And, well, Peter, he's dead."

"Dead," Peter repeated, voice somewhat stoic.

"He was found in Connecticut. Eight years ago. Gunshot to the head, but no one was ever charged with the murder. It's listed as an unsolved."

"Dammit," Peter responded. He pushed back his chair from the table, leaning back to glare at the ceiling of the room.

"Sorry to not have more information," Jones persisted. "I'm going to follow-up with the case agent, but it looks like it's been a cold case for a while. And given Adam—I mean, Matthew's – background… it didn't seem a big priority for them to figure out what happened."

Peter just sighed. "What else?"

Jones cleared his throat. "The previous office of Messier doesn't check out to much. Checked records and no one of that name…"

"Neal said he went by a different name back then…"

"Then that explains it, but even so… It's been a rental space for at least twenty years, so there is limited information of the tenants. Currently it's a restaurant. I can keep pushing but –"

"Just look at that one year I highlighted. All leases that year."

"Sure, Boss."

"And permits."

"Got it."

Peter was silent. He stared at the phone on the table and the recording device.

"What else?" Jones asked. "You guys hear from Neal at all?"

Peter's brow furrowed. "No. Not yet."


	28. Chapter 28

Reviews mean a lot. Thank you to those who have left any notes. I really appreciate it. A handful of chapters left:)

* * *

When Neal gradually stirred awake, it was to pain. He slowly eased himself back to reality, feeling completely disoriented. As lucidity hit, so did soreness, and he grimaced, groaning slightly as he tried to take in his surroundings.

In doing so, the next thing he noticed beyond pain was darkness. He knew his eyes were open, but he couldn't readily see anything. A quick touch of his hand to his face indicated nothing covering his eyes.

He took a deep breath, wincing automatically. His ribs hurt. His face hurt. His hips hurt.

And it was dark.

He sensed he was laying flat. Moving his hand at his side, he could feel the texture of the cot's surface under his fingers. Very little else was obvious. Had Jason put him on the cot?

Part of him then panicked. Flight instinct kicked in, and he knew he had to sit upright. He was met with a wave of intense pain as he did so, and he couldn't help but let out an audible hiss, folding his arms over his stomach impulsively as though it might alleviate the pain. It didn't.

Sitting up, he used his hands to assess his current state. He felt pain in multiple places and strategically ran his fingers over himself trying to gauge whether anything was seriously injured. After that quick self-assessment, he was pretty sure he was just bruised. While that was good, it didn't make it hurt any less.

The scene from his last moment of consciousness came rushing back to him as he briefly squeezed his eyes shut. Neal wasn't a fighter. He wasn't even great at self-defense. When it came to fight or flight, he most definitely chose the latter when an option. That hadn't been an option this time. He vaguely remembered blacking out.

He breathed in and out, with deep breaths despite the painful plea from his ribs to calm down, feeling hatred towards his captor and intense anger over his situation. He felt extreme animosity towards Jason now. Especially now that he had turned the lights out again. That action was like adding salt to the wound.

He slid his legs over the side of the cot to turn and sit on the edge of it, grimacing slightly.

He now regretted not focusing on channeling Willy more forcefully. Willy would have simply painted, regardless of the circumstances. There wouldn't be backtalk. He wouldn't have risked any anger from Jason. Willy was submissive. He kept his head down and did what he was told. Neal obviously wasn't adequately playing the role, and now he was paying for it.

He blinked a few times, darkness remaining despite his wish for light, and he swallowed back the pain. He tried to _look_ around the room, begging his eyes to adjust. It was so dark in the room again that it was again difficult to gauge what time it was. What time had passed.

He started to get to his feet slowly. His jaw hurt marginally and he worked it experimentally as he stood. Most of his pain was radiating from his ribs. He hissed again as he pressure tested his hand against certain parts of his torso once he was standing.

A wave of dizziness passed.

Neal took a deep breath.

He closed his eyes.

Then opened them again.

"Dammit," he said out loud.

One day gone. Entering day two.

And now in darkness again. Though his eyes now registered elements of the room, at least to orientate himself, visibility still remained far from ideal.

Neal once again felt angry at himself. Without a connection to Peter or the team, while locked in this room he had little ability to add any value to the case. He couldn't tell them where he was, and he couldn't prove the forgeries. He wasn't gathering any additional information or evidence. If anything, the opposite. He was contributing to them growing their collection again.

He felt like pacing but wasn't sure he was strong enough just yet to manage that. Frowning, he tried to think about what Peter would want him to do in this situation. He tried to channel the conversation, if they had thought of this scenario, what would Peter have suggested? In thinking of this, he could only imagine Peter saying ' _I told you so'_ about the entire thing.

As he silently berated himself for being in this state of affairs at all, he felt a sudden wave of nausea hit. He tried to ignore it, but that was unsuccessful. The urge to be sick started to build, and he pushed himself in the shadows in the direction of the bathroom.

He made it there just in time, locating the toilet desperately and dropping to his knees in front of it just as he lost the contents of his stomach.

It was over quickly, but then he found himself dry-retching for a few minutes, beyond his control. He felt his gut heaving almost in spasm and groaned as it further exacerbated his bruised ribs.

As he eventually calmed down, he scowled at the bitter taste in his month and reached shakily in the direction of the toilet's handle to flush the contents of the bowl, going off of memory given the absence of adequate light. Then he climbed back to his feet, a little unsteadily, reaching out in front of him in the darkness to locate the sink. It was a small room, and he found it easily, turning the faucet on and dipping a hand into the stream of cold water. After a moment of feeling the cool stream, he then leaned over the sink and cupped his hands together, scooping up water into his mouth and then spitting it out in an attempt to wash away the reminder of sickness. He did this over and over again before feeling it was the best he could do. He then swallowed some of the water before scooping more to splash on his face.

After, he stood upright, simply standing in the darkness of the small bathroom. He ached. But the physical hurt now at least partially concealed some of the anxiety he had felt earlier. He wasn't sure if one bad feeling overshadowing another was something to feel comforted by. He doubted it.

He carefully left the bathroom, hands ghosting the doorway as he passed it, and slowly walked back into the main room of his solitary confinement. His eyes scanned the darkness, looking for any sort of hint and briefly pausing at that small narrow 'window' which let a dull sense of light just barely infiltrate the room.

Chain dragging along with him, he slowly made his way back to the cot. He knew it was pointless to try to continue exploring the room in the dark. And the pain in his ribs and sides made him want to sit back down more than anything else.

As he settled back down on the cot, he longed to turn back time to the previous day, to the post office, where he could have refused to go along. That moment felt very long ago. But he had choices then. Even before that, when he was on his bike, when he could have simply gone his own way, even turning back. There were many times in his life Neal had desired to turn back time, but in this current moment he really wished for it.

He was thinking about this as he closed his eyes, reclining back onto the cot to lay flat once more. Just for a minute, he told himself.

He hadn't realized that he'd fallen asleep until he found himself suddenly waking again. Once more he was abruptly gaining consciousness and re-acclimating himself to the present. This time it was to a jab at his shoulder, which stirred him immediately, and he found himself flashing awake once more, struggling to sit upright through the reminder of pain in his abdomen.

The lights were on this time, the first noticeable difference, and he flinched at the shock of that reality as his eyes tried to adapt.

He quickly realized Jason standing over him. He started to brace himself, but the man took a step back now that he'd successfully woken his hostage.

"Will," Jason said, tone somewhat mechanical and without emotion. "You okay?"

Neal frowned, raising his hands to his face to rub at his eyes briefly while trying to yet again orientate himself.

Had Jason really just asked if he was okay? Who was he kidding?

Neal realized he didn't know how long he'd slept for this time. He'd had no idea when he first awoke what time it was, and now again there was yet again a passage of time that was unknown. This frustrated him. Was it officially day two? As though it was groundhog day, he sat up and slid his legs over on the cot to let them slip to the floor, ignoring a sense of deja vu.

"Despite your lack of response, I think you're fine." Jason continued to speak, voice low and gruff. "Listen to me, Will, and listen good. We didn't end yesterday on good terms." He paused, brow furrowing slightly. "I told you more than once that we're under a tight deadline, but it seems you didn't understand that. I can't tolerate that, and I warned you there would be consequences. Now maybe you do understand. But if not, I'm sure I can think of other ways to have you come around."

Neal felt chagrined at the tone and the words, but pushed those feelings aside, channeling Willy. Submissive Willy. Calm Willy. He swallowed and nodded, using the pain he felt as the motivation to bite back the comments he would otherwise want to use in response. "I do," he confirmed, voice slightly hoarse. "I do understand."

"You better," Jason answered. "We chose you for this job because we know you're capable and you've proven to be trustworthy in the past. But you need to be completely onboard. Completely, Will. I know this isn't conventional but this is where we are."

 _Conventional_? Neal wanted to retort back. He bristled at the comment. Instead he stayed silent and nodded again. Inside he felt rage.

"I need you focused today," Jason persisted. "And that means completely focused. On nothing else but the job. If I come in here again, and it's like yesterday, then you will be very sorry. Understand?"

Neal nodded once more. He felt an urge to clench his hands into fists but forced himself to keep his posture lax. Willy wouldn't show any signs of resistance. Willy would never question authority. And Neal had to be Willy. He had to ignore his own feelings for the time being.

He tried desperately to keep his expression void of any emotion as well. He knew he had to put anger aside, and at that moment it was increasingly becoming less of an issue, because more than anything he felt afraid, which trumped anger. This was day two of an unknown engagement and that terrified him. He also was unnerved that he hadn't woken up when Jason had entered the room; he'd only woken when he'd been forcefully roused. That wasn't good.

Jason hadn't responded to the nodding acquiescence. Instead he was walking away from Neal now, towards the canvas on the other side of the room. Neal slowly got to his feet as well, coaching himself to appear engaged and subdued. He walked towards the man, frowning at the telltale sound of the chain that voiced its existence with each step, dragging along with him.

He felt slightly dizzy, like before, but he ignored that for now. There was no nausea.

Jason's eyes were fixated on the barely started Magritte canvas. He let out a deep sigh. "This one needs to be done as soon as possible, Will. You lost a lot of valuable time yesterday."

"It's oil," Neal started, clearing his throat. He shifted his stance slightly, feeling uncomfortable. "It takes longer to dry then the aquarelle style of –"

"Stop. Enough with the excuses," Jason snapped, turning to face him with a vengeful look in his eye. "Just finish it. Okay?"

"But it's oil, Jason. If you transport it while—"

"We know how to transport it," Jason retorted harshly. "I'd focus on your part of the deal, if I were you. I'll have nothing _to_ transport unless you finish the goddamn piece. You do that, and let us worry about the rest." He kept his eyes focused on Neal for a moment, as though trying to get a read on him, working his jaw. Then he tilted his head towards the table of supplies behind him. "Look, I brought you another sandwich."

Neal swallowed, his eyes glancing behind Jason to find a plate at the end of the table. The sandwich looked suspiciously similar to yesterday's ration. His stomach gurgled slightly, and he wasn't sure if it was hunger or the repeat of nausea from the evening before. "Thanks," he forced out, not meaning it in the slightest.

"I'll be back in a few hours," Jason told him, continuing to study him as though he was trying to gauge Will's commitment. "And I better see progress when I'm back."

Neal nodded automatically. He felt he might as well be a puppet on a string. "You will," he said affirmatively. Standing this long, he felt tired already. His body ached, and he felt weak. But he knew he had to push past that and stood up straight, as though he felt nothing.

Will looked unconvinced but nodded back. "I don't want a repeat of yesterday, Will," he said firmly. "I'm sure you don't either." A beat passed and then he added, "I'll bring you the pencil and paper you asked for as well."

Surprised, Neal frowned slightly and then nodded. "Thanks." He hadn't expected Jason to remember, let alone acknowledge the past request.

"I didn't forget," Jason told him, as though picking up on the surprise. He glanced at his watch. "And it's seven fifteen. Morning." He looked up again, meeting Neal's eye. "Before you ask."

Neal nodded again, more slowly, a little confused at the gesture of telling him the time and offering to provide the previously requested supplies. But he didn't question it and didn't verbally respond.

"Three hours," Jason told him. "And I'll be back."

Neal nodded once more, neck aching.

* * *

"Nothing," Peter exclaimed, pacing their small conference room in agitation. "Absolutely nothing."

Seated, Diana watched her boss sympathetically. Day two and there wasn't much more to lead them to a next step. Being physically here in Vermont hadn't helped much. They needed clues and there were few to go on.

She had at least appreciated a good night's sleep. The hotel mattress wasn't ideal, but given the last twenty-four hours, she'd very much appreciated being asleep well before midnight and not being startled by a very early morning alarm.

But the morning hadn't provided much progress. The local field office seemed much more focused on their own cases. In fact, other than the White Collar division insisting a case had crossed into their jurisdiction, they had no indication of this otherwise. So they were cordial and accommodating, but didn't seem inclined to go the extra mile.

"Boss," Diana spoke as she watched Peter continue to pace. She noticed the darkness below the man's eyes, and the pace of his walk.

"Yeah," he responded, tone a bit curt. He didn't stop his patrolling walk around the conference room, the result of nervous energy.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" she asked.

"Of course," he answered.

"More than an hour?" she challenged.

"Yes," he responded, though his tone wavered just slightly. "I did. I'm fine, Diana," he added. He looked up to meet her eye briefly. "I mean it." He paced away from her towards the window in the room.

"Okay. But your wardrobe isn't," she replied. As he turned and looked up at her with a frown, she shrugged. "Peter… Day two. Technically day three in that suit." As he started to make a face, she continued, "Not that you don't look professional or at your best, Boss, but…"

"The hotel gave me a toothbrush and toothpaste," Peter said, a little defensively.

"Uh, sure," she answered with a nod and a smile. "And did they give you clean underwear too?" She'd known Peter long enough that she felt no qualms making the statement.

Peter cocked his head to his side, giving her a cynical look but smirking slightly. "You sound a little like my wife did this morning…"

She laughed. "Don't think that's a bad thing…. But just listen," she continued. "You appear fresh as can be now… I don't mean otherwise. But, Boss, let's be realistic here. You need more than one suit if we're going to be here longer than today. And you need to actually sleep."

"I know…." Peter answered, a tone of disappointment lacing the words. He paused, shaking his head and glancing towards the window again before he regained eye contact with Diana. "I know it sounds stupid, but I was hopeful somehow we could resolve this quickly."

"I know," she responded, sighing gently. "Me too. But none of us have a crystal ball."

He frowned, pausing in his pacing, stationing himself and placing his hands on his hips. "I need to find out where he is," he said adamantly. "I need to put the case aside, and I need to find Neal."

Diana nodded. "I know. "

"He's not equipped for this," Peter continued. He frowned, shaking his head. His arms dropped to his side, and then one arm rose as his hand massaged his temple. "If anything happens to him…" he trailed off, shaking his head. Then he looked up again. "Listen, Diana. You guys see a certain side of him, but—"

"I get it," she interjected.

Peter didn't look convinced. "You think you do…"

"I do," she said. "Trust me."

"I do trust you," he affirmed, expression relenting a bit. "Because you're here."

"Jones too, you know," Diana responded. "He's not here. But he trusts Neal too." She paused and then smirked. "Most of the time." She watched the evolution of Peter's expression and continued. "Really... Boss, I don't see him behind the scenes like you do. At home. But I see him enough. I get it. He's good. He's proven himself to us."

Peter nodded, accepting of that answer. He paused and then said, "Thanks."

"Nothing to thank me for. He's not an agent, but he's a member of this team."

Peter tilted his head to the side. "It's one thing telling me that… But you could make him feel like it on occasion when we're back home, by the way…"

She smirked. "Oh no. That's called hazing. No one escapes that, Boss. Even your pretty CI. Takes a _long_ time before that stops."

Peter nodded, giving a tight smile back in response. "I get it. Maybe you'll have a chance to explain that to him when he is back."

Diana sighed. Before she could respond, she noticed Peter's phone buzzing on the table.

Peter noticed as well and he reached for the phone quickly. Upon viewing the contact, he let out a deep breath.

"What?" Diana asked.

Peter rolled his eyes just slightly. "It's Mozzie," he answered. "He's been sending cryptic messages to Neal's phone since yesterday that I can't even understand, and I guess now he's desperate enough to try me directly."

Diana nodded sympathetically. "Well, maybe he's worried."

"Maybe. But I don't know what to tell him."

"Maybe he can help?"

Peter watched the voicemail notification light up on his phone and paused. "Maybe. Not so sure though… Let me listen to this."

Diana nodded.

Peter flipped open his phone and pressed his voicemail button. He held it to his ear and began to listen. The familiar voice came over the line, low and tentative as though nervous to be leaving a physical message.

"Suit, it's me," came Mozzie's voice. Then he paused. "Haversham." This was followed by him awkwardly clearing his throat. "I'll keep this short," he continued. "But I haven't heard from our friend and… uh…. I'll admit it. I'm worried." Another long pause, for a few seconds. "He, uh…" There was a sigh, then, "Never mind… What I mean is…. If you know anything, let me know, will you?" He paused again. "I'll even resist burning this phone for a little while."

With that the line went dead. Peter sighed.

* * *

Magritte. Magritte.

The name repeated itself in Neal's mind.

Brush in hand, he stared at the canvas in front of him. A continuation of yesterday's efforts.

It was essentially an exact repeat of the earlier day. But this time he didn't question it. He didn't get angry, and he didn't get distracted. He focused. His goal was to come up with a plan, and while doing so to also get this painting done. He refused to be beaten again.

Neal had always been a fan of Magritte, and he found his artwork to be timeless. His work in surrealism easily transported Neal to other channels of thought. Magritte challenged perceptions of reality. Neal wanted to challenge his perception of this room. But he didn't. He knew if he strayed from the painting, it would mean trouble. His only detour from Magritte so far was to discreetly mark the passing of another day in the corner of the room as he had the previous day. He could continue to futilely explore the room once the painting was complete.

So with a focused mindset, he painted. Completely engrossed in the canvas and driven to make sure he didn't have any problems with Jason that day. He was determined to have significant progress whenever Jason returned.

He still felt stiff and his ribs objected to each movement with a recurring wave of pain, but other than an occasional wince that he couldn't control, he ignored the physical discomfort to focus on the task ahead.

While he hadn't been thrilled at receiving an identical sandwich to the day before, he'd eaten it after Jason had left him. One meal a day was less than ideal, but Neal knew eating something was necessary. It wasn't strenuous work, but he did need to keep up his strength to be able to make it through the day.

As he painted diligently, his mind wandered. While it was a forced effort to paint, once he got into the rhythm, the familiar motions became almost therapeutic.

He soon found himself find himself in a zone, and the work started to materialize with little effort.

* * *

"Perfect…" Jason mused a few hours later, reviewing the canvas with close scrutiny and a slight smile.

Neal watched Jason's appraisal, standing cautiously a few feet away and urging himself not to move. He knew if there was any noise of movement, which was hard to avoid with current conditions, it would potentially change the mood in the room.

"This is good work, Will," Jason continued. He leaned in towards the signature on the corner of the piece and then nodded. He then turned away from the canvas to face Neal. "You're done, right?"

Neal nodded. "Yeah." He was tired. He'd spent the last few hours on his feet.

"Good," Jason responded. "I'll take it with me." He paused. "On to the next. You remember the next one?"

The next one. Neal's heart sank in despair, and he felt his heart start to beat faster as dread washed over him. This incessant painting wasn't going to be sustainable. He tried to keep the surprise and dismay off his face, but couldn't completely respond with compliance. "Can I have a small break?" he asked tentatively, almost cringing as he asked it. He was apprehensive of the man's reaction, but knew he had to try.

"Name the next one," Jason answered stiffly. "Then I'll decide."

Neal swallowed. The next one that had been presented to him on the jet had been mentioned right after the realization dropped that Jason wanted fifteen of these paintings in two days. His mind blurred slightly but as he watched Jason's face and saw the frown that began to evolve, he knew he had to speak quickly. And fortunately it all rushed back to him. "Corot."

A look of relief seemed to pass over Jason's face. "Yes."

Neal cleared his throat. Then he added cynically, "Did you know that Corot painted three thousand canvases, and ten thousand of them have been sold in America?"

Jason's brow furrowed at the comment. "What?"

It was clear the comment had gone over Jason's head. Neal resisted rolling his eyes. "He's probably one of the most forged artist," Neal clarified monotonously instead.

"Good." Jason's voice was clipped. "Then you shouldn't have any issues."

"It's actually kind of interesting, if you think about it. He would let his students copy him, or even borrow some of his pieces. Not only that, but when they came back to him, he would touch up and even sign student copies." Neal shrugged. "Hence the abundance of fakes."

"Fascinating…" Jason responded dryly, voice indicating he felt it was anything but. He eyed Neal for a moment, and then turned to take the current canvas off of its easel. "I'll be back with a copy of the piece and a new canvas." He paused, turning towards Neal again. "What kind of break do you need?"

Neal was hopeful Jason was even receptive. "Half hour," he said after a brief assessment of might seem reasonable.

Jason seemed to think about it for a moment. He then answered, "Fifteen."

"Huh?"

"You can have fifteen minutes," Jason replied. "And then it's back to work. And if I come back in here and you're up to no good, you'll pay for it."

Neal nodded, swallowing again. Up to no good, he repeated in his mind. "I just need a short break. That's all."

"And you've got it. Fifteen minutes. Not a second longer."

Neal again nodded. He stayed stationary as he watched Jason leave the room. The sound of the lock clicking back in place made him sigh.

He had to get out of there.

* * *

"His notes are good," Jones said over the phone to Peter as he slowly walked around the warehouse. "I knew that from the minute I started reading them yesterday, but today I'm actually kind of impressed."

"Good as in informative or there's something there to give us a lead?" Peter answered. His voice was a little impatient, but Jones knew it was the situation causing that reaction and didn't take it personally.

"No lead so far…" Jones answered slowly. He glanced over the works surrounding him. "It's well organized. Except…"

"Except what?"

"Except there's one small group of paintings that don't seem included in what he's cataloguing," Jones responded. "And it's not like they're their own style or period. They are definitely a mix of pieces I would have easily classified in one of his other groups."

"He had to have a reason."

"I'm sure he did. But even so, I'm not sure if that's going to give us the lead we need."

Peter's sigh was audible over the phone. "Keep going through the notes. Did you read everything?"

"Not yet," Jones admitted. "I'm getting through it. Your boy can write, did you know that?"

"Write?" Peter echoed.

"Yeah," Jones answered. "He's detailed as hell. About every piece. Reads like a brilliant op ed."

Peter was silent for a moment. Then he cleared his throat, as though unsure of what to say. Finally he said, "Ironic. He hates paperwork."

"Well, this ain't exactly paperwork, Boss."

"Keep reading," Peter answered, tone a little softer. "I'll call you back in a couple hours."

"You got it." Jones paused. "Oh yeah, one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"What's it with the cameras here?" Jones asked.

"What do you mean?"

"So twice now an agent has made a comment to me… Anything I need to know about?"

Silence came over the line at first, and then the sound of Peter's chuckle, low and melodic. Jones had to admit he was a little relieved to hear some emotion from his boss. "What is it?" he asked.

"Don't worry about it," Peter answered. "Neal…. was Neal. I took care of it."

Jones frowned, feeling less appeased than before and more curious, but he accepted the response. "Alright."

"Thanks. Keep at it. I'll call you in a couple hours."

"Talk to you then."

* * *

New canvas. New ask.

Neal knew he couldn't get discouraged or resistant and that he had to acquiesce. But he was having trouble curbing his feelings and his instincts. He tried to channel Willy, desperately tried to channel him, but it was difficult.

Sometimes he loved blank canvas. It was representative of opportunity. Anything could take place next.

But this time when he stared at the blankness, it caused heartache and angst.

A fifteen-minute break wasn't enough to clear his head and to refocus. It was barely enough time to wash his hands, get a drink of water, and just sit for a brief moment. Then Jason had been back. All business, direction, and force.

Now Neal had to calm himself and focus. As anxiety rose and he started to feel an urge at his core of erupting, he knew he had to resist. And he did. He knew he had to do this without question.

This piece was a landscape. He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the brush in his hand.

He again didn't know what time it was, except it was probably afternoon.

He looked down at the paints at his disposal and took a deep breath.

It was time to get started.

He took a deep breath and focused.

* * *

"You're good at this," Jason said, staring at the completed landscape piece later that evening.

Neal didn't respond, seated on the cot a few feet away. He felt exhausted. He was relieved he'd finished, signature and all, before Jason had returned, but in doing so felt like he'd drained himself completely.

"But of course you're good at this," Jason continued, moving a little closer to the canvas with a critical eye. "That's why you're here." He paused and turned to look at Neal. "You did this in less than five hours," He said. "You see what happens when you actually work?"

Neal felt disgusted at the comment but found himself tiredly nodding. "Yes."

"This gets us slightly back on track…" Jason responded. He turned back to the canvas. "You're done, right?"

"Yes," Neal answered, feeling as though that circular conversation was getting old.

"What's next?"

Neal felt a pang of emptiness inside of him, and desperation. He couldn't paint again tonight. He really couldn't. He would go crazy. "Right now?"

"Right now," Jason persisted. "Which one is next?"

Neal shook his head. Why was it always a pop quiz? He started to feel a bit desperate. "Jason. Please. Not another one now."

"Will," Jason persisted. He took a step towards the cot, turning his attention to Neal. "Let's not reverse the progress we made today. I told you we're under critical time constraints. It seemed like you were finally understanding."

"I know," Neal said while trying to keep his tone even and calm. "I do understand. And I'll do it, I promise, but I can't do it immediately. One after one after one." He swallowed. "I can't."

"You what?" Jason retorted irritably. "Can't?" He shook his head. "You can and you will." He walked further towards the cot, essentially closing the gap between them. "Do you even remember the next one?"

"Rubens," Neal spat out. He glared at Jason. Why should completing two works today have brought him any sort of relief? He felt angry again and try to temper it. "Peter Paul _Rubens,_ okay?" He knew his tone was pushing insolent.

Predictably, Jason's hand flew up to slap Neal on the side of the head. "Watch your tone," he said icily. "I do not want this turning into yesterday. You got me?"

Neal winced, hand rising instinctively to rub at his skull where he had just been hit. It smarted but it wasn't as bad as the other aches he felt. He didn't respond verbally but took a deep breath.

Jason narrowed his eyes. "Will. Answer me."

"Yes," Neal forced out, refraining from a 'tone' as much as he could. "I got you."

"Good." Jason continued to watch him and crossed his arms over his chest. "You can have fifteen minutes again, but then you need to start," Jason answered. He paused as though waiting for a response, which Neal didn't supply. His raised his eyebrows. "Anything else about this piece you want to remind me of?"

Neal was tired and his head hurt. It was hard to think. He swallowed, trying to consider what Jason might be getting at. "About the artist?" he asked. He knew plenty about Ruben as well.

"No," Jason responded stiffly, his impatience seemingly growing. "The piece itself. The one I showed you on the plane."

Then it clicked. Neal nodded. "It's not on canvas."

"That's right," Jason answered. He smirked slightly. "I thought you'd tell me that right away."

 _I don't care,_ Neal thought to himself, remaining expressionless. "It's a wood panel."

"That's right," Jason answered. "Lucky for you we have one."

Neal again didn't respond. He stared beyond Jason tiredly.

Jason turned from him, heading towards the door. "I'll be back in a few minutes. If—"

"I'm hungry," Neal interjected, looking up. He wasn't. He was nauseous. But after hours it was a reasonable request and distraction. Maybe it would buy him more time.

Jason studied him. "You want another sandwich?"

Neal didn't. He hated the sandwiches. They were disgusting. But he nodded. "Yes."

Jason gave Neal a wary look. "Okay. Fine." He paused. "I'll bring you that. And you can have fifteen minutes. But then I need to see that you're making progress."

Neal felt a hollowness inside but nodded. "Yes."

He watched Jason leave and then got to his feet, taking a deep breath. He glared down at the chain as he walked across the room and tried to think hard about his next steps, literally and figuratively. He ran both hands through his hair and could sense them shaking just slightly. He was starting to fear the situation more and more. What was going to be the endgame? Certainly Jason couldn't expect that they would just go back to normal after all this. That they'd return to New York like nothing had happened?

The thought turned his stomach. Jason's words from when he first brought him here came rushing back to him. He had specifically said, ' _Without the painting, you're disposable_.'

A jolt of anxiety hit Neal, harder than before. Neal needed to figure out a plan. Peter always found him but this time he didn't see how he could. There were no clues. The post office was a dead end. He had no way of contacting him.

A quick list of ineffective plans ran through Neal's head.

He could attack Jason when he came back. Find something, some sort of tool, and stab him with it. Maybe break the plate that the sandwich came on over his head. Maybe he could get him unconscious and maybe there would be a key of some sort in his pocket.

Jason was big. That could backfire big time.

He could try to blind him first. Maybe throw paint in his face.

He could try to start a fire. Jason would rescue the paintings but would he bother helping Neal?

And start a fire with what tools?

Neal's mind was all over the place and consequently he paced.

What Neal did know is that he couldn't be rash. If he made a decision to act, it had to be well thought-out. Otherwise, he was only going to get himself hurt, and he wasn't ready to be subject to another beating just yet if it could be avoided.

* * *

Day three.

Neal painted the roman numeral onto the corner wall in a daze.

Another night of darkness had passed.

He stood back up and stared down at the crude record of time passed. His hand rose to his jaw, rubbing at the stubble that had formed.

Three days.

He then turned back towards the rest of the room, to the next canvas in front of him. His ribs ached less today.

He'd behaved beyond the extent he thought he was capable of the night before. He'd resisted all urges to prematurely act on Jason. He'd forced himself to start to paint on the wooden medium subsequently provided. He even ate the additional sandwich that had been provided, despite cringing through each bite and cursing the existence of ham. Then he kept his head down and painted.

After a few hours of this, anxious as to whether Jason would return, the lights had gone out abruptly.

It angered him then, that there was this sort of timetable they were forcing him to, and at that moment he'd resisted a number of urges, including destroying the work he'd done so far.

Instead he forced himself back to the cot, to lay down, and to rest. The wise part of him knew that one night of true rest and rehabilitation was more valuable than acting out on the anger or trying to cause a scene without a full plan. And despite the need to curtail anxiety, anger, and fear while lying on the cot and staring into the darkness, he knew he was doing the right thing.

Because of that he woke feeling more like himself. Less fatigued but still tired, achy, and frustrated. Better equipped to manage the anger.

He convinced himself that today, day three, was the day. Today he would figure out how to get out of this place.

The problem was that his plans, the fleeting efforts of escape that formulated themself in his mind, were still basic and riddled with problems. But he was running out of time.

Jason had already been by once that morning, confirming to him that it was six in the morning, and committing to be back in an hour. Their exchange was cordial. After all, Will was being very submissive and pieces were being delivered. He'd finished the piece started the evening before as well.

The current focus of delivery was a piece by Kazimir Malevich and Neal was somewhat comforted to be back in an abstract form of art. He was reminded of a quote of the artist. 'Art does not need us, and it never did.' Neal felt in contrast to that now. This art needed him, because Jason and Messier needed it, and in return was the reverse. He needed the art.

So Neal focused, and focused, and focused.

But he was also acutely aware of his promise to himself.

So when Jason returned to the room later that morning, whatever time it was, presumably an hour but maybe three, Neal pushed Willy to the side for a moment to attempt his own con.

"This is looking good," Jason commented, reviewing the canvas.

Neal glanced at the canvas himself, at the recreation of a piece titled 'The Wedding' by Malevich, and was silent.

His heart pounded. He felt on edge, waiting for the right moment.

"How much more time do you need on this one?" Jason asked, turning to view Neal.

They stood just a couple feet apart. Neal's anxiety spiked while he attempted to keep his composure externally.

"A few hours," he said slowly. Then he forced himself very gradually to start to waver a bit. "Uh… Sorry…" He paused "Jason…"

Jason frowned at him, viewing him with slight suspicion. "What is this? What's wrong with you?"

Neal continued to be a bit unsteady on his feet. He tried to be subtle at first. "I don't know," he said earnestly. He stumbled forward just a step. "Sorry. I just feel a little weird."

"Weird?" Jason echoed skeptically. He raised his hands. "Listen, if you're trying to play some game here or –"

"No," Neal objected. He put a hand on his head, trying to avoid appearing too dramatic. "Sorry," he repeated. "I just suddenly feel a bit dizzy…"

"Why?" Jason demanded. As Neal stumbled forward again, he grabbed him by his shoulders. "Listen, you have water, food, and everything else. What is it?"

 _Like he had everything he needed,_ Neal thought wryly. At the same time, he forced another stumble and strategically placed his hands on Jason to brace himself.

"I think I just need to sit a few minutes," he said, voice tentative. "I'm sorry. It'll pass in a minute."

"Okay. So sit," Jason responded back stiffly. He started to push Neal back towards the cot.

Neal allowed himself to be pushed in that direction, trying to refrain from revealing any facial expression response that might hint at succeeding with the current con. "Thanks…. Jason. Really. I'm sorry."

"So take a small break," Jason told him. He pushed him down onto the cot, a little hard.

Neal braced himself as he was forced down onto the seat and settled down onto the cot. He nodded his head, staying silent. He folded his arms across his middle, forcing an unwell look.

"It's early today," Jason started. "Get over whatever this is, and then we need to make more progress."

Neal nodded. "Yes. Yes. Sorry. Just need a few minutes." The repeated apologies seemed to be working.

"Fine." Jason frowned at him. "Take ten. I'll be back."

Neal nodded again. He watched as Jason left the room, staying completely still. Once he heard the door lock, he straightened his posture and unfolded his hands and arms.

He now had a cell phone.

* * *

TBC


	29. Chapter 29

Neal quickly moved to the bathroom once left alone. He knew he didn't have a lot time and had to use every second wisely. When Jason said to 'take ten,' Neal was pretty sure he meant it very literally and would likely return when roughly that much time had elapsed.

Adrenaline was racing through his veins, and he also felt a sudden flash of relief that he'd been successful. He hadn't been completely certain the rouse would work. And even if it initially did, he didn't know if the lift of the phone would go smoothly. Neal had years of practice and had perfected his art of pickpocketing, and simply acting as well, but he normally performed both those skills in his own element on his own terms. This was anything but his own element, confined to this room for now three days with limited contact.

The first thing Neal did when Jason left and locked the door was to look at the digital clock on the phone. Eight in the morning.

He then flipped open the phone, praying for it not to be locked with a passcode, and let out a sigh of relief when he saw that it wasn't. Had it been, he supposed he could have made an emergency call and gotten 911, but that wouldn't allow him no way to cover his tracks, and speaking directly to Peter was a preferred option.

He wasted no time rapidly entering Peter's phone number on the keypad with shaky fingers and then anxiously pressed the call button, taking a deep breath at the first ring as he held the phone to his ear.

Three days since he'd spoke with him. He was anxious to hear Peter's voice. To finally make contact. He could feel himself buzzing with anticipation.

He listened to the second ring.

 _Pick up the phone, Peter_ , he urged, clenching and unclenching the free hand at his side. _Please_. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, fidgeting. His eyes remained locked on the view of the door in the other room. In the bathroom, it was easier for him to step out of sight if needed, but he also needed to ensure he knew exactly when Jason was returning.

Peter's voicemail kicked in, and Neal cursed.

He pulled the phone down from his ear and quickly redialed, taking a deep breath, hands trembling.

 _Peter, I need you to pick up,_ Neal continued to think, stressing the words in his mind as though he could somehow channel Peter telepathically. _I really, really need you._

Ring after ring.

Neal didn't understand it. He thought Peter would be on high alert.

Why wasn't he picking up?

 _Come on, come on_...

He swallowed as Peter's voicemail started again.

"Dammit!" Neal said out loud. He slammed his free hand against the wall, ignoring the pain that resonated in the heel of his hand and up to his wrist. He hit it again, needing some sort of outlet while trying not to let the feeling of dread overwhelm him.

He considered texting instead.

 _Where are you, Peter?_ he asked silently.

With eyes locked on the doorway in the other room, unblinking, he remained persistent and redialed again.

* * *

Peter was standing on a checkout line at Walmart, with a few people in front of him, frowning at his shopping cart, which contained a couple pairs of cheap jeans, a handful of plain dark t-shirts, and a sealed clear plastic package of undergarments and socks.

That morning he'd finally acknowledged the need to change his wardrobe, given he really didn't know the extent of time needed to remain in Vermont to find Neal. After a brief stop at the office to drop off Diana, he got directions to the nearest place to invest in a cheap change of clothes, and while he felt guilty stepping out, knew it was a needed investment.

He'd hoped to make this a very quick detour. He was anxious to get back to the office, even if he didn't know exactly what his next steps were in the case. Quick it hadn't been… He sighed at the line ahead of him, which while relatively short seemed to remain stationary the last several minutes. He shifted his stance impatiently, frowning deeply.

His attention was diverted from the line when his phone started to buzz in his back pocket.

He extracted the phone from his pocket and stared at the screen. It was a New York area code, and he felt pretty certain it was Mozzie, who had been texting Peter yet again that morning. Peter was yet to respond to him.

 _Not now, Mozzie_ , he thought to himself with slight exasperation, hitting the button to send the call to voicemail and returning it to his pocket. If he got Mozzie on the line, it would be difficult to get him _off_ the line. He knew he should call him back, and sooner rather than later, but preferred not having the conservation in a public setting.

At the same time, the line in front of him started to move just slightly as the person at the front completed their checkout and started to roll their cart towards the exit.

He did feel slightly guilty for his delay in returning Mozzie's messages. He hadn't even texted back. While the man was a less than ideal influence on Neal, it was clear he did care a lot for him. They might define Neal's best interest a little differently overall, but Peter knew Mozzie would do anything to ensure Neal was _safe_. Peter wasn't sure what to tell him… So when he felt the phone buzz again, he frowned slightly, but focused moreso on shifting his cart forward in the line, another few steps closer to the cashier.

When it buzzed a third time, he felt more frustrated and reached for the phone again, flipping it open and putting it to his ear. Apparently avoiding the discussion now was unavoidable. He couldn't help the tone of irritation that came across as he started with, "Hey, listen to me, if you –"

"Peter," came the voice over the line, hushed and slightly desperate but unmistakably Neal. He sounded a little panicked and out of breath. "Why weren't you answering?" he inquired, the low voice almost accusatory.

"Neal?" Peter responded. He suddenly felt struck with surprise and like time just stopped. Abruptly everything around him seemed to blur. Finally. Contact with Neal. He was immediately on edge, and he completely forgot of his shopping cart and the line in front of him. "Neal. Jesus… Where are you? Are you okay?"

"I called _three_ times," Neal persisted, voice a strained whisper. "You didn't pick up."

Peter winced at the words. He now felt stupid ignoring the first calls. Of course it could have been Neal. Why hadn't that crossed his mind? Neal obviously wouldn't be calling from his own number or even a local one. As guilty as he suddenly felt, he quickly moved past it, directly getting to the more critical questions at hand. "Listen. Where are you? I've been trying to figure out where you are, Neal, but–"

"I didn't run."

"What?" Peter let out an exasperated breath at the words from Neal, frowning and raising his other hand to rub at his jaw. "Yes, I know you didn't run, Neal," he responded gently. "Tell me. What happened after the post office? I need to know where you are."

"Trace this line, Peter." Neal's voice wavered just slightly, and Peter frowned because he hadn't heard his CI like this before. His tone, while shaking slightly and not at full volume, stressed his urgency. Neal was clearly afraid. "Please. Trace it now. You need to find me."

Peter felt a chill go down his spine. "Neal. I will. Are you okay? Do you know where you are?"

"I don't know the address. You have to trace it." Neal quickly repeated the request. "Don't call this number back. Don't text it. You can't let them know you have the number. I don't have a lot of time." His voice was insistent, words coming so quickly that they almost tripped over each other as he rushed to get his message out. "Peter, I—"

"Are you with Jason right now? Where are you, Neal?"

"He's going to be back soon."

" _Where_ , Neal? Give me some sort of clue."

"I don't know. I'm not far from the airport," Neal whispered. "I'm in a house. I… I tried to pay attention to know the directions, Peter, but I…" He trailed off, voice hitching slightly. "I don't really remember. But I know it's not that far from where the post office was."

With that Peter felt a little hopeful, despite his worry over the way Neal was speaking. Part of him had earlier feared there could have been a second plane, or they could have hit the road in another vehicle, covering miles of ground in the time that had passed. Fortunately, Neal was still local. But he still didn't know where to target a search. "Why are you whispering? What's your current situation, Neal?"

"Are you tracing yet?" Neal asked tenaciously, focused on this and not the questions. His voice remained hushed. "I need to hang up soon."

"Neal, I will." Peter glared at the line in front of him and the unmoving shopping carts. "Why do you need to hang up? Can you give me any other description about where you are? Can you leave the house?" He glanced at his cart briefly and then towards the exits of the store. Without thinking twice, he tucked the phone between his chin and his shoulder and started to quickly pull the contents out of his cart and tuck them under his arm. "Any unique markers or landmarks?"

"What do you mean you _will_?" Neal persisted, voice rising in pitch slightly with a nervous edge to it. "Why haven't they started the trace yet? Peter, please, just _do it_ _now_. You _need_ to trace this line. You _need_ to find me." He spoke rapidly, as though time was running out. "Please."

"Just stay on the line, Neal, and I will," Peter responded, trying to keep his voice calm. Neal's panicked speech pattern made him worry. Neal rarely said please, even when begging for something. When Neal rambled it was normally in excitement over something, not fear. This raw trepidation was unnerving to hear. With the clothing secured under his arm, Peter swiftly walked towards the exit of the store. As Peter passed the cashier, sending her a quick and unnoticed glare. "Listen to me. Why are you afraid? You have to tell me what's happening."

"But I _can't_ stay on the line," Neal objected, voice sounding broken. "I need to hang up soon." He paused and then stressed the words, "Peter, I _need_ to get out of here. I can't be here any longer. It's been three days."

"Where is 'here'?" Peter frowned at the desperation he heard in the tone. It bothered him that Neal was whispering and talking somewhat frantically, yet he hadn't given much of an indication as to what his current situation was and had ignored the question about why he was scared. "Are you hurt, Neal?"

There was a small pause over the line. Then Neal whispered back, "Not really."

Peter's brow furrowed at the vague response and his stomach turned slightly. "That's not a yes or no, Neal," he said stiffly. "Which one is it?" The irritation wasn't for Neal. It was at the situation. He felt anger that anyone might hurt Neal, and he wasn't there to stop it. He reached the front of the store and purposely approached the security guard standing by the metal detectors that adorned the doorways of the megastore. He pulled out his wallet as he did so, keeping the phone balanced to his ear.

"Sir, can I help you?" the guard asked, becoming attentive at Peter's sudden approach towards him. He was a standard nondescript security uniform.

Peter flashed his badge at the guard. "My name is Peter Burke. FBI. I don't have time to explain, and also don't have time for waiting on a line." As the guard frowned at him, a little caught by surprise, Peter pulled open the wallet and extracted a hundred dollar bill. "This more than covers what I meant to purchase," he said adamantly as he pushed the money into the guard's hands. "I'll send an itemized list later, but this is a federal emergency."

The guard raised his eyebrows, and clearly didn't know the protocol for such an unusual situation. But he stared at the badge that Peter again flashed and the insistency on his face and slowly nodded. "Sure. Okay."

"Good," Peter responded, relieved that it wasn't more of an issue to leave the store with the items. He'd been ready to completely forgo the new wardrobe and simply drop the clothing to keep moving if the exchange took more than a brief exchange of words.

He quickly exited the store through the automatic doors, ignoring the beeping of the alarm that objected to his unusual departure and continuing with wide and face-paced steps to the parking lot. "Neal," he returned his attention to the phone at his ear. "You with me?"

"Peter. Who was that?" Neal asked, voice still a whisper and now sounding increasingly edgy. His words were a little tentative. "I told you… I have to hang up soon."

"Neal," Peter responded earnestly, stressing his name as he marched in earnest towards his car, which was a few rows deep into the parking lot. He felt a surge of protectiveness and longed for that to translate into something he could do for Neal immediately. "I'm going to find you. I promise. I just left the store, and –"

"Store?" Neal echoed in a hushed voice, incredulous. His tone climbed slightly higher in pitch. "What do you mean? Aren't you looking for me?"

The question filled Peter with a sadness and made him sigh as he found and unlocked his car. "Of course I am," he replied earnestly, pulling open the back door of the car to throw his 'purchases' onto the seat before slamming that door and quickly getting into the driver's seat to turn on the ignition, balancing the phone between his jaw and shoulder to keep his hands on his wheel. "I haven't _stopped_ looking for you, Neal," he told him sincerely. "We just haven't had much to go on…" As he reversed out of the spot, he felt angry that he'd even considered this detour that morning. Neal needed him and he was _shopping_? And he almost didn't pick up the phone? "I'm going to trace the number, Neal, but can you tell me anything else about where you are?"

"I told you. I don't know." Neal exhaled, a low and guttural sound that hitched slightly at the end. "Peter… I _need_ to get out of here," Neal persisted. It was a mix of a demand and a whine. "Now."

The whispered plea cut to Peter's core, and he felt a pang in his chest. He spoke firmly, "Listen to me. Can you stay on the phone just a few more minutes?" he asked, navigating to the exit of the parking lot and cursing a slow minivan in front of him. "I'll be back at the office in five minutes and –"

"No," Neal interrupted. "I don't _have_ five minutes. He can't know I have a phone. I need to go."

"Why don't you have five minutes?" Peter responded, frowning further. "How did you get the phone?" He assumed 'he' was Jason, but wasn't completely sure. "Neal, you haven't told me what is going on."

"I need to go," Neal repeated. "I can't risk it." There was a pause and then he said, "Please find me, Peter."

The line clicked dead.

"Neal?" Peter tried pointlessly. There was no response.

Can't risk it? Risk what?

Gripping the steering while as he turned onto a main road, he accelerated towards the FBI field office, ignoring the speed limit he was most definitely exceeding.

* * *

By the time Peter made it back to the office, his heart was pounding. The sound of Neal's voice replayed in his head and he cursed at himself for not being at the field office when the call was received. He'd wasted a valuable opportunity to trace the line while the call was active. And he now was wasting time commuting back to the office, even if it was just minutes.

He pulled into a parking spot outside the office with a squeal of the tires as the car halted to an abrupt stop. He ignored the fact he was parked in a space that was marked specifically for the handicapped, valuing the proximity to the entrance as a priority over abiding by the law at the moment. He barely had the car in park when he threw open the door to exit, slamming it behind him with more force than intended as he jogged towards the entrance, resisting the urge to run.

He flashed his badge at security as he entered, not even stopping to greet the guard. Fortunately this local field office had grown accustomed to the sight of their New York visitors over the course of the last few days and the guard simply nodded and didn't ask any questions as Peter rushed by.

Immediately he made his way to Val Clarke's office, refraining from jogging across the bullpen floor but still taking the longest, quickest strides he could manage.

Relieved she was present and that she wasn't on the phone, instead head bent over a pile of paperwork, he knocked quickly on the open doorway frame, and said urgently, "I need a line trace. Now. Who can do that?"

She looked up, a little started at his sudden presence, and then dropped the pen that she'd been holding. A frown formed on her face. "Excuse me?"

"A line trace," Peter repeated, a little more slowly. He tried to contain himself. Back home, he'd be barking out orders to specific agents and they would be reacting. Here, he was a guest. He tried to explain, keeping his voice as calm as possible. "I just heard from Neal. He called from an unblocked number, and we need to run a trace on it. As soon as possible."

She nodded, continuing to frown slightly but also pushing back her chair and standing. She walked around the desk, taking in his concerned expression, and said, "Follow me. I'll introduce you to our technical analyst, Agnes. She can help you with anything you need."

"Thank you," Peter responded gratefully. The rush to get back here had been intense, and he realized he was out of breath. He tried to steady his breathing.

As he followed Val, he reflected on the fact he didn't feel he was on the best terms with her, mostly stemming from the tension around referring to Neal as a suspect. Regardless, he knew that she was a professional and invested in contributing to the case. He felt they still had a mutual respect for each other and hoped to leverage that to get the help they would need.

As he followed Val across the floor, he caught the sight of Diana approaching them out of the corner of his eye. Her expression changed to concern as she took in the look on his face. "Boss, what's going on?" she asked cautiously as she reached them and joined their progression across the floor, keeping in step with them as they approached a particular corner of the office.

"Neal called me," Peter allowed slowly, trying to formulate words to express the facts rather than how he felt. He swallowed, throat dry, as he tried to focus. He needed to get everyone in action and soon. "It was quick, and I didn't get much information, but we need to trace this number and find his location immediately."

Diana raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised. "He called? Wow. What'd he say?" she asked, looking hopeful. "Is he okay? Is he with Jason?"

"I don't know," Peter admitted, rubbing a hand over his jawline as they came to a stop at a young woman's desk.

She was petite, with dark hair pulled back into a French braid, large rimmed brown glasses framing her face. His attire was subdued, with dark colors, as though she preferred not to be noticed in her small corner of the floor. She stared up at them now, looking a bit alarmed at the sudden arrival of three senior agents at her desk.

"Agnes," Val began. "I don't think you've yet met Agents Burke and Berrigan from the New York office… They're here investigating an art forgery case that has moved into our jurisdiction."

"And kidnapping," Peter added.

Val frowned at him just slightly. "Right…" She turned back to the young woman behind the desk. "I need you to help them with whatever they require, Agnes."

"Of course," the woman replied, nodding earnestly and giving a small smile. "Anything you need."

"I need a line trace," Peter said. "As fast as possible."

Agnes nodded again. "Sure. I'll see what I can get as soon as I have a number."

Peter pulled out his phone and flipped it open, jumping to the recent calls. He looked at the duration of the successful call, four minutes and forty-five seconds, and then the missed calls below, marked in red. The red font stabbed at him and he felt guilty that he hadn't gotten an extra couple of minutes with Neal. He couldn't imagine how Neal must have felt when he was frantically dialing yet no one was picking up…

He knew he couldn't dwell on that now and focused on the number. "Nine, one, seven…"

"Nine, one, seven…" Agnes repeated back, typing swiftly into her keyboard.

He finished reading the number and she repeated back the digits in confirmation. Then her fingers started flying over the keyboard, rapidly typing.

Val touched Peter gently on the arm. As he turned to her, she said, "I'll be in my office. But you're in good hands with Agnes. If you need any backup or assistance once you have a location, just let me know. We'll give you whatever support you need, including the local enforcement."

"Appreciate it," Peter responded with a nod, watching her departure briefly before returning his attention to the technical analyst.

"Did he say anything that can help us find him?" Diana asked Peter softly, standing at his side while keeping her eyes on the rapidly typing junior agent. "What has he been doing the last three days?"

"He said he's in a house. And that he's not that far away."

"From here, you mean?" Diana frowned slightly. "Well, that's good. At least he's still nearby. I was worried that wouldn't be the case. Anything else?"

"Not specifically," Peter responded with a sigh. "I tried to get some more information but he was more focused on us tracing the number and could only stay on the phone a few minutes…" He paused. "It was a bit odd… He was whispering. He sounded like he was hiding or something."

"Hiding?" Diana's brow furrowed. "From who? Jason?"

"Wish I knew…" Peter murmured. Neal had sounded scared and small. He knew they had to act fast. He clenched his fists at his side, trying to stay composed. This wasn't a normal case. This wasn't a stranger at the core of it. It was Neal.

"Okay, I'm all set," Agnes began. They turned and found her looking at them expectantly. She continued, "If you call the number, and someone picks up, I can start the trace. It'll take seconds."

Peter suddenly stared at the phone in his hand.

Diana picked up on his hesitation. "Boss, what's the matter?"

Peter pressed his lips together, forming a tight, thin line. "Neal was very specific…" he started slowly. Neal's voice came back to him, the soft and frantic tone, as he said the words. Peter repeated it now from memory. "He said, ' _Don't call this number back. Don't text it. You can't let them know you have the number.'"_

"They…" Diana echoed. "Who is 'they'? Must be Jason and Messier, right?"

"I would assume so, but I really don't know…" Peter took a deep breath.

"So you're _not_ going to call it?" Agnes asked, looking a little confused.

Peter looked at the agent and slowly shook his head. "No. I can't. It's someone else's phone and clearly he wants to ensure they don't find out he used it…" He frowned. "You can still trace it, right?" He started to feel heightened anxiety.

"I can," she confirmed. She began typing again. "It'll take a little longer, but it's not a problem. Since there isn't an open call, I just need to triangulate their position off of cell phone towers." Her fingers clicked a series of keys. "Which I just started." She scrutinized the screen. "Picked up first tower…"

"Can we also look up the owner of the phone number?" Diana suggested.

"Let's locate it first," Peter said. "One thing at a time." He took a deep breath. "Right now, I just need to know where the hell he is." He rubbed at his jaw again, feeling his heart beat in his chest. _I'm going to find you, Neal_ , he thought firmly. _You know I always do._

* * *

As soon as Neal ended the call with Peter, he felt a mix of emotions. He tried to process them as he desperately proceeded to remove evidence of the communication from the phone, deleting the call records with trembling fingers.

He felt relief that Peter had answered. The initial two calls, unanswered, were distressing. The ongoing rings felt like an eternity, and he suddenly had started to panic even further. What if Peter didn't answer? He could have left a voicemail, or texted, and given the same message, but not knowing if Peter had received it, or _when_ , would have driven him crazy. And if Peter simply returned the missed call without getting the message, then that could have been disastrous.

Fear still resonated. He'd been successful in making contact, but that was just one part of the battle. He needed Peter to find this house, and _quickly._

He also now needed to deal with the ramification of having the phone in his possession. He had a few alternatives. Assuming Jason hadn't noticed the missing device, he could try to reverse his lift, and attempt returning the phone to Jason's pocket. That could be a great option or a horrible one. He could put the phone on the table, close to where Jason had been standing, as though Jason could be convinced he might have left it behind. He could leave it on the floor near the door, as though Jason had dropped it. That didn't seem believable though. Surely he would have heard the fallen phone hit the floor and it would have caused damage to the device as well. And the last option… He could hide the phone in the room.

Albeit brief, he'd felt comfort in hearing Peter's voice as well. For three days, he'd been alone in this basement, by himself for hours on end. His only human interaction had been with Jason, and most of it had been unpleasant. Hearing a familiar voice, one that was usually on his side, had been uplifting. And promising. Peter always found him, and Neal tried to convince himself that this time was no different. Peter's voice had been calm. Like he would know what to do next.

He felt conflicted he hadn't given Peter more details on his current situation, but he didn't think it would serve any purpose. Even describing the room he was in would have been a waste of time. It was the _location_ that mattered. The priority was making sure Peter could hone in on his coordinates and be able to find the house. If he told Peter he was locked up, had been beaten, or was being forced under duress to forge for them, it wouldn't help. Peter would probably get worried, and he didn't want to put that onus on him.

He hadn't _lied_ either. So there was that. When Peter asked if he was hurt, he'd responded 'not really,' which was vague but not untruthful. After all, it wasn't like Neal was in a dire condition. He _hurt_ , all over really, but hopefully nothing was broken, and either way, he was still standing and capable to keep giving Jason what he wanted until he was found.

He was also a little confused. Why wasn't Peter at the office? Why was he at a store? It worried Neal a little bit. Had they moved onto something else? Peter insisted he was looking for him, though there wasn't much to go on. Had the lack of information made them detached from the investigation?

He refused to dwell on that. He had to concentrate on Peter's focus now to find him now, even if it was a renewed focus.

Despite all these thoughts and sentiments, he also knew he had to divert his attention back to the decision at hand that he feared: What to do with the phone. He longed to keep the phone, to hide it, and to somehow succeed in having it at his disposal. He could call Peter back that evening, when the room went dark, when he knew he wouldn't be interrupted.

But this outcome would depend on Jason not realizing that the phone was missing.

Or hiding the phone and being _really_ convincing that he had nothing to do with it.

Neal paced the room nervously, trying to get his thoughts prioritized. "Think, Neal," he said out loud, voice strained. "Think fast." He felt sick. He was still aching all over, his stomach felt in knots, and he suddenly wished, not for the first time, that Peter had never allowed him to be part of this case to begin with.

He turned and kicked at the chain that was following him, clenching his fists and cursing. It hurt when his bare foot caught the metal but it also grounded him.

He had to make a decision. And quickly.

He glanced at the phone in his hands. It was seven minutes passed eight.

He looked up at the door.

* * *

TBC


	30. Chapter 30

He had to make a decision. And quickly.

He glanced at the phone in his hands. It was seven minutes passed eight.

He looked up at the door.

The options he'd previously considered replayed through his mind once again, and he adeptly deliberated each one of them individually, considering the perceived odds of success in his head with careful calculations. In these sorts of situations, it really was like gambling. Some scenarios offered readily available statistics from prior experiences. This one, not so much. Neal had been in many tough situations, and he had a lengthy repertoire of unique escapes, but chained in a basement with little resources? He didn't have much experience to leverage for this particular combination of factors.

Sighing softly, Neal knew this decision carried a lot of weight and he needed to use the brief moment he had left wisely.

The physical ache he felt, particularly in the area of his ribs, reminded him that he would prefer to avoid more retaliation from Jason if possible.

What would Willy do? What would Neal do? This shifting of personalities between Willy and Neal, and trying to _stay in character_ as Willy, was trying. Being held in captivity for three days under the guise of another identity was slowly taking a toll on his patience and psyche. Despite being his creator, Neal was very different from Willy. Resisting his instinct, especially when Jason was in the room, was challenging. Usually when playing a role, Neal had a bit of a respite from it at some point. This time, after hours of playing Willy, he had hours alone at night in complete darkness while chained up, offering only a break from being on his feet painting, but not from the situation. On the phone with Peter, he'd struggled with turning off Will. There was a level of fear and agitation that Will clung to, more than Neal ever would.

He shook his head. He couldn't dwell on any of that. He knew he had less than minutes to make a decision on what to do. Jason's cell phone was in his hand.

He looked at his canvas. At the Malevich piece.

He hoped Peter had started a trace.

Whatever he decided, he had to act on it as soon as possible. He couldn't be caught with the phone in his hand.

Weighing the alternatives, Neal resolutely made his decision and walked over to the table of supplies next to his painting. He didn't hesitate as he deliberately set the phone down on the far corner of the table before taking a step away from it, and looking at the decision.

There.

Done.

There was no going back now.

After that, he returned to stand besides the painting. Jason had left him seated on the cot; the least he could do was be painting when he returned. He knew respecting the priorities might carry at least a little bit of weight.

And within a minute of those actions, he had to live with the choice.

The now familiar sound of the door unlocking piqued his unease just slightly, but he held his ground. This was the moment where he would be able to tell if he had made the right decision. It was a familiar feeling… That moment before you find out whether a con truly worked or not.

He picked up a paintbrush, adjusting his position so that it looked like he'd been focused on the canvas all along.

Soon after the door was unlocked, it flew open with force, banging against the outside wall in the hall and rattling in its frame. Jason wasted no time, storming into the space with obvious anger. He closed the gap between the two of them rapidly and pointed his finger in Neal's face. "Okay – game over, Will. Where is it?" he demanded loudly, tone and body language clearly aggravated. "I know you have it."

"Have what?" Neal answered with a frown, forcing a distracted expression as though he'd been focused on the painting and deep in thought. He turned to view the other man, forcefully holding his posture steady though he felt a ripple of trembling under his skin.

"My _phone_ , you smartass," Jason responded stiffly, almost a growl. "You're obviously feeling _better_ , huh?"

Neal paused momentarily, expression passive as he internally debated his response. Jason wasn't an idiot. Neal knew Jason would have noticed the phone was gone and would immediately know where he was when he last had it, which is why Neal had made the choice he had. Assuming otherwise was a big risk. One Neal couldn't prove but felt intuitively. And he knew that feeling was usually right. So without hesitation, Neal said, "Oh," with complete nonchalance, as though it shouldn't be a big deal. "You left it there," and gestured to the other end of the table.

Jason eye's shot over to the phone, eyeing the device amongst the supplies on the table. Then his focus returned to Neal, gaze strong with accusation as his eyes narrowed. "Oh yeah?" he challenged. "I _left_ it there?" he stressed the words sarcastically. "Is that right?" He walked over to the device with a few strong steps. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

Neal watched unresponsively as Jason reached the end of the table, hand extending towards the device to grab it. "Am I stupid?" Jason repeated. He grasped the phone in his hand as he turned to glare once again at Neal. "That's what you think?"

"No," Neal said slowly. "I don't."

"Well, here's what I think," Jason said irritably as he flipped open the phone and seemed to do a quick check of the log with a few hasty finger movements over the keypad. Then without a comment, he turned the phone on its side in his grip and snapped the device in two. "That's what I think." He forcefully threw the broken device to the ground with irritation, and the pieces bounced across the concrete, skidding across the floor before hitting the wall and settling in a discarded mess.

Neal continued to stand there and remained still. He said nothing, watching the pieces strike the ground and then returning his gaze to the other man to see what would happen next. In the back of his mind he remembered a conversation he'd had with Mozzie about how authorities could still track calls when a phone was off. 'It's not good enough to turn it off,' Mozzie had stated. He tried to remember the details of that. Was it the battery remaining in that was a factor? But then again, this wasn't just off. It was broken… As the thoughts went through his head rapidly, he meanwhile kept his expression passive.

Jason slowly walked towards him, obviously livid. It was in his posture, his expression, and his narrowed eyes. "Now tell me," he started in a low voice. "Who did you call?" He enunciated each word.

Neal forced another frown. "What?" he responded, purposefully stressing surprise in his voice. "Call? No one. I didn't touch it."

"Bullshit," Jason answered, continuing towards him, pace slow but ominous as he closed in. "You really do think I'm stupid, don't you..." He shook his head slowly, lips curling slightly. "I'm giving you one more chance, Will. Who did you call?"

"No one," Neal responded again, his own voice a little stiff. He then braced himself just in time before Jason narrowed the inches between them and then delivered a swift punch to his gut, reigniting the pain that had been throbbing within a bearable range all day. He swallowed back a grunt as the wave of pain hit, sharpest near his ribs, and fought against the urge to bow over.

"No one?" Jason echoed. He shoved him, and Neal stumbled back a step, unable to catch himself. "Is that right? You expect me to believe that?"

"I called no one," Neal persisted adamantly, bracing himself once more as Jason delivered another punch. Neal resisted the pain, pushing past a wince at the sharp ache that screamed within him, and sputtered back, "You can check."

As he spoke, Neal reconsidered whether he should have hidden the phone or gone with one of his other alternatives. He'd been right Jason would notice the phone was gone. Naturally he'd suspected Willy had it, so likely he wouldn't have stopped at any means to find it. So Neal told himself it was the optimal decision. He both got his message out to Peter and had minimized the repercussions. Hopefully none of this would matter soon if Peter had traced the call…

Jason glared at him, hands clenched at his side. "Is that so? I can 'check'?" he repeated caustically. "You think I was born yesterday?"

Neal braced himself again. One more push and he knew he'd be up against the wall. One more punch and he was sure a rib would break. He tried not to glare but stared back at Jason without blinking. He knew he had to stand his ground. Willy would have cowered, but Neal was standing strong. It was soon to be the end of Will.

Jason raised a finger, pointing it in Neal's face. "The only reason," he spoke slowly, menacingly, "that I'm not beating the shit out of you is because of that." His finger point redirected to the canvas. "That needs to be _finished_. Do you understand? If not for that, you'd be getting the beating of your life and you wouldn't walk for days. Understand me?"

"I'll finish it," Neal responded, gasping as Jason then again delivered a solid punch to Neal's stomach. A wave of pain surged through his ribs and he curled one arm around himself protectively. He focused, anchoring himself. One more to finish. Just one. Malevich. He could do it. If Jason left him to do that, it could buy him time before Peter got here.

"Oh, you don't have to tell me, because I know you will," Jason retorted abrasively. "Only there's one twist now, Will."

One twist, Neal repeated in his head. What kind of twist? He didn't ask this out loud but his unrestrained frown, a real one this time, conveyed the question just as much. He kept himself braced for a potential additional blow from the other man, joints stiff.

Jason smirked. "Like I said… You think I'm stupid. But I'm not, Will…" He shook his head. "You know our business. We burn phones," he said while gesturing to the one discarded in pieces on the floor, "just like we burn identities. Just like we burn _locations_."

"What do you mean?" Neal asked tentatively.

"We're leaving."

Neal paused. "I thought you wanted me to finish the—"

"Oh you will," Jason interjected harshly. "Don't look so surprised."

"But why do—"

"Because you _called_ someone," Jason answered, cutting him off in annoyance.

"I _didn't_. I told you."

Jason shoved him again, and stumbling back before able to steady himself, Neal now found himself backed against the wall. "You did," Jason continued stiffly. "And now I imagine they're looking for you. And you won't tell me who, or even admit to it, so that leaves me only one choice. We're leaving."

Neal stared at Jason for a brief moment, then glanced over at the canvas and the table of supplies. "No one's looking for me," he lied. "I don't even know where I am."

"The phone knew where you were," Jason snapped back. He took a step back from Neal, eyeing him distrustfully for a moment before he reached behind his own back towards his waistband, beneath his shirt.

Neal watched the movement warily and then felt himself go further on edge as Jason's hand reappeared with a gun aimed at him. "Jason," he objected, holding up his hands to show no sign of resistance. "You don't have to—"

"Shut up," Jason snapped. "You did this. We had a deal, and you had to complicate it." He gestured the gun towards the cot. "Now sit down."

Neal hesitated for a moment, eyeing the gun and Jason, and then glancing at the cot.

"I said, _sit,_ " Jason repeated, raising his voice.

Neal followed the repeated order. He slowly moved, passing by Jason and the weapon, turning his back just for a moment to close the distance between himself and the cot. He swallowed back the lump in his throat before turning back to face Jason, sinking down to sit on the surface of the cot. He felt his ribs object to the movement with sharp pain but remained expressionless.

He knew taking the phone had been a risk. He'd known that and the various potential scenarios the moment he'd chosen to take it. He'd expected some kind of consequence to it, even more severe than what he had just experienced. But it had been a necessary risk. All worth it to secure a chance to get out of there. Taking the phone was essential, not just impulse.

But now, standing over him with this weapon, Jason was appearing to behave more like the unhinged version of his character that Willy had heard stories of a decade ago. Neal had observed some moments of paranoia from the man, and he had experienced the physical ramifications, but this was the first time he was seeing a weapon during his time here.

"You don't have to do this," Neal said carefully, tone even. He kept his hands folded in his lap, where Jason could see them. If he exuded calm, perhaps it would influence the situation. Doubtful, but he didn't find another approach more warranted. "I'll finish the painting."

"I know," Jason affirmed with an edge to his tone. "We already confirmed that, Will. You're just not going to do that here."

Neal worked his jaw slowly, thinking. He watched Jason carefully at the same time. Jason was moving again, slowly towards him. He was tucking the gun back behind his waistband, and while the weapon no longer being aimed at him was a relief, at the same time, this was making Neal feel uneasy. Jason had some motive now. He just wasn't sure what. So Neal spoke, trying to use his usual ability to talk to garner some sort of position. "Jason, I'm a bit attached to this room," he answered, raising his foot slightly and eyeing the attached chain.

Jason shook his head slightly, pursing his lips. "I wouldn't worry about that."

Neal swallowed again, readying himself as Jason came closer. "What do you mean?"

"We don't have a lot of time," Jason answered impatiently. "I'm guessing they might already know your location. Whoever 'they' are, Will."

Neal didn't blink. He had said the same thing to Peter. He didn't have a lot of time. Was Peter on his way? Would he have already located this house? He curbed those thoughts as he suddenly felt a chill as he watched Jason reach into his other pocket. He was about to take out something. The question was what.

"Jason," Neal started smoothly, wanting to avoid finding out. "I think we should talk about this. If we leave now, it delays finishing the Malevich." Instinct flooded his veins, and he got back to his feet without questioning the risk, using calm and not too quick movement, but nonetheless expeditiously moving past Jason and towards the painting and the table. The man had reached to grab him as he passed but Neal avoided the touch with an elusive step to the side, maintaining his usual agility despite the pain he felt.

He was already in an inferior position; being lower than Jason and also seated wouldn't help. He couldn't give up. "If I keep going now—"

"No. I told you to sit," Jason snapped, following his movement and walking towards him. Neal looked from the painting back to Jason and his eyes dropped down to view his hands.

Jason's hand now revealed a syringe.

Neal's eyes locked on the syringe. He didn't know the contents and wanted to avoid finding out. "Jason," he objected, looking back up. "You don't need to do this."

"We're out of time," Jason responded.

* * *

"Well, that's a little weird," Agnes mused out loud, fingers tapping readily against the keyboard.

Peter watched her intently, taking a step towards the technical analyst's desk to peer around it towards the computer screen. He couldn't admit to understand everything that was there at first glance and didn't have time to decipher. They were running out of time. "What do you mean, 'weird'? Do you have coordinates?" he asked, a little impatiently.

"I have a radius narrowed down…" she said slowly.

Neal and 'radius,' Peter thought irascibly. "How big a radius?" he persisted. "Is it enough to go on?" He stood with his hands posted on his hips.

"I had two of the towers locked in," she continued, brow furrowing as she explained, continuing to type and staring at the screen without blinking. "And was close to getting the third to triangulate from but then the location dropped."

"Dropped?" Diana repeated, frowning as well.

"Yeah…" Agnes persisted. She tapped a few more keys persistently. "Like the phone suddenly turned off or went dead. Let me try one more approach…"

"We don't have time," Peter responded impatiently. "We need to move." He shook his head. "How big is the radius?"

Agnes glanced up at him, feeling the sense of urgency in his tone and trying to work faster. "I had it down to half a mile…" she answered, shrugging with a sigh as she continued to focus on her machine. "The third tower would have allowed me to get within a range of addresses…"

"Tell me the coordinates," Peter insisted.

"Sir?" Agnes looked up in confusion.

"Show me where the half mile you've narrowed down is. I'll start there. And you'll keep at this and call me as soon as you have an update."

She frowned slightly. "Some of it's wooded area. If you give me a little bit more time then –"

"You can have that time while I'm on my way there," Peter answered edgily. "Coordinates. Now."

"Yes, sir," she answered. She pressed a brief series of keys and the laser printer beside her desk whirred into life. As the sheet of paper emerged from it, she handed it over to Peter. It was a map. There was an area mapped out in red. "You have both streets and coordinates here," she explained quickly. "If you need another view I can—"

Peter swiftly snatched the paper. "Print another. Now."

Agnes blinked. "Another?"

"Yes. Another one."

She swallowed and quickly typed the same commands. The printer whirred again.

This time Peter grabbed the second sheet off the printer himself. "Thank you," he said to the agent. "Keep at it." He paused. "Diana." He looked up at his agent. "Let's go."

Diana nodded and followed him without a word as he started briskly walking away. She kept in step as he made his way in seconds back to Val Clarke's office.

This time he walked right in, not even knocking.

"I need local PD," he said as he approached her desk. "ASAP."

She looked up, frowning, though appearing to now be conditioned to interruptions from the other agents. "Sure," she answered with a nod and without questioning the reason. "Where?"

"Here." He slapped one of the just-printed pages down on her desk, ignoring the paperwork it covered. He then grabbed the pen he saw in sight and leaned over the desk to write. "I need a police perimeter on the half mile range that Agnes narrowed down." He began to draw a markers in the shape of an 'x' swiftly. "I need them here. And here." He drew one more. "And here. I will be within this range. Can you do that?"

"Absolutely," Val agreed.

"Good." Peter straightened, leaving the page on her desk. "You tell them there's potentially two suspects and a civilian. And you get Neal's description out on the APB. If anyone mistakes him as a suspect, I swear to God there will be hell to pay."

Val frowned, and then glanced down at the sheet of paper in front of her.

"You can do that?" Peter persisted impatiently.

Val looked back up. "Yes. Of course. I can do it now." She nodded, not commenting further on the request, and reached for the phone. "I have your number.

"Good." Peter tossed the pen back on the desk before he vigorously began to walk away without another word.

Diana stayed on his heels, nearly jogging to keep up, and followed him towards the exit of the agency with her heart pounding.

* * *

"You don't need to do this," Neal repeated, keeping himself composed. His eyes remained locked on the syringe.

Jason slowly approached him. "I do." He took another step closer. "And this would be a lot easier if you would just sit back down, Will."

Neal hated guns. He hated needles. And he increasingly hated his situation. He knew he was going to have to stay agile and lithe to get out of this. As the other man approached, he braced himself. He didn't know where Jason wanted to take him, but he knew it couldn't happen. If he was moved somewhere else, they would be starting from scratch. Peter would waste his time to find this location, and once they moved, Jason would surely be much more careful to ensure Will didn't get any chance of escape.

"I think we should talk about this," Neal persisted.

"No," Jason responded. The syringe remained in his hand, a silent threat. "There's nothing to talk about. Don't make this hard, Will."

"You don't have to use that." Neal nodded towards the syringe. "I'll come with you."

Jason forced a sarcastic chuckle. "Yeah. Right."

"I will."

"You've proven you can't be trusted, Will," Jason responded.

"But if you use that on me, you're only delaying the Malevich."

"You're the one that complicated this."

Neal remained resolute as the man approached him, calculating the situation around him and his options. Typically, Neal leveraged his intelligence to get out of a bad spot. He would manipulate the situation until he had it in his favor. This was going to require several different skillsets in order to avoid finding out what was in the syringe.

He wanted to look around to assess options and what was at his disposal. But Jason was readily approaching him and he knew he couldn't let his eyes leave him. So he worked his memory on what was within reach.

"Jason, please," he tried again, as though simply saying the man's name might sway his decision. It was worth a try. Sometimes it worked with Peter.

Jason didn't even seem to notice. He was very focused on Neal as he approached. "Will, it's just one more painting," he said. "Let's not make this more complicated."

One more and that was it? Neal wondered. And then what? That was the question he'd had all along, as Jason's initial comments clearly indicated there was no use for him after. "Let me finish it here," Neal insisted.

"This will just take a few minutes," Jason replied. He was closing in on him.

That's when Neal knew time was up.

The next moment took place in a flash, and Neal felt as though he was observing the events from an out of body experience.

As Jason took his final step towards Neal and lifted the syringe, Neal reacted. His arm quickly shot out towards the table beside him, locating without turning his head the cup he knew was set there. In it was a mixture of water and turpentine that he'd been using to clean the paintbrushes the last few days. Grabbing this, he without hesitation hurled the contents of the cup in Jason's direction.

As Jason reacted, stopping in his tracks and cursing loudly, immediately surprised at the splash of pungent liquid in his face, temporarily blinding him as he squeezed his eyes shut from the chemicals, Neal kept moving. He used Jason's distraction to gain the upper hand. He easily slipped the syringe out of Jason's hand before the man could recover, hands up to his face and sputtering. With focus and determination, Neal had the cap off the syringe in seconds and then jammed the needle into the other man's bicep, pushing down on the syringe to inject whatever it was into the other man.

Jason let out a guttural noise, almost like a long shout, as he was injected, and Neal quickly stepped aside and distanced himself, quickly backing away from him.

Jason tried to follow, reacting on defense. His eyes were still squeezed shut. "That was stupid!" he shouted, arms up and turning as though he was trying to locate Neal.

Neal simply stayed out of the way of the increasingly disoriented man. Jason came close to him a few times, muttering and swinging his arms, but his senses were overcome. Try as he might, he missed making a connection each time, and Neal deftly sidestepped him each time with lithe movements.

Neal stayed silent, focused on his footwork away from the other man, who was becoming increasingly lethargic and uncoordinated, with jumbled angry speech. Within a couple minutes, Jason collapsed.

He didn't know what had been in the syringe, but clearly it was some sort of sedative and a large quantity of it.

Neal stared at the man on the floor for a moment, waiting to see if there was any further movement.

Jason twitched momentarily and then there was a low sound of snoring as he entered a deep sleep.

Neal exhaled, feeling as though he'd been holding in his breath for the last couple of minutes. Sensing Jason was truly out, he moved quickly, rushing towards the body.

Jason had landed on his side, in a somewhat awkward angle. The drugs had taken effect pretty quickly, which Neal was thankful for but also couldn't help but consider the scenario if the positions were reversed.

He removed the gun from Jason's waistband first, sliding it away from himself across the floor, slightly distanced but within reach. Then he quickly searched the man's pockets, hoping to find a key or something that would give him a clue about his anklet and chain. After a thorough check, he found a wallet and that was it. He went through the wallet tersely, and it didn't provide any useful insights. The ID had the name he knew and the only other interesting content was fifteen dollars of cash.

Neal took the wallet anyway, pocketing it. He continued to search the other man's pockets.

There was no second phone.

There was no key either.

"Dammit," Neal said out loud. He knew he couldn't stay here. He didn't know how long Jason would be out. And he did not want to be here alone with him when he did wake up.

He glared at his chain, the only thing keeping him in this room.

Then his attention turned to the gun.

He'd seen it done in many forums before, but mostly on television. A gun miraculously shooting through a chain. He knew it was possible but not a guaranteed success. He also knew the risk of ricochet.

He shifted himself to reach for the gun. He held it in his hand, considering the weight of it, and then checked to ensure it was loaded.

His mind was racing, multiple scenarios presenting themselves. He could wait. Peter might be coming soon, and if Jason woke up, he would have the gun to use as leverage.

If Jason woke, Neal wasn't sure the gun was enough.

Decision made, Neal took a deep breath and moved to the center of the room. He stared down at the chain, determining where he wanted to target a gunshot.

In his mind, he tried to determine the adequate physics to make this successful. He thought shooting the chain from a distance would allow for the optimal force of the bullet but at the same time, he wasn't fully confident of his aim.

He raised his hand, aiming the gun to its target as he steadied his arm, focusing on the chain on the ground. He chose a spot a couple feet into the chain, not wanting to shoot too close to his own body.

Unyielding in this next step, he braced himself as he pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out in deafening volume, and the bullet hit the chain, causing it to skip against the concrete, before it ricocheted away unpredictably, thankfully embedding itself in the wall on the other side of the room.

Neal's heart was pounding. He knelt down to examine the chain, glancing back briefly at Jason to ensure the man was still unconscious. He could feel heat in the chain where the bullet had hit, but there didn't seem to be any other impact.

He straightened, back to his full height, and aimed again, determined to make this work.

There was the same result. A earsplitting shot, followed by the chain clanking against the force, and then a ricochet that made Neal's breath catch in his throat.

This wasn't working.

He examined the chain again, and realized it was not going to be as easy as he'd hoped. The chain was withstanding the impact of the gunshot without even a dent.

Two bullets down.

He looked again at Jason, who hadn't stirred.

Neal next turned his attention to where the chain was secured to the wall. This tactic was less than ideal, but if it meant freedom from this room, he didn't care. He stood by the wall, glaring at the bolted chain. He aimed the gun again, this time firing into the concrete just at the base of the attachment of the metal to the wall.

He winced at the third gunshot, ears ringing, but this time there was progress. He felt optimistic as the concrete cracked and chipped away. He quickly tested the chain, pulling at it, and finding it still secure. So he aimed at the same spot again.

He fired once more, another deafening shot ringing out, realizing he was going to become scarce on ammunition soon if this didn't work.

"What the hell?" came a voice from behind him.

Neal spun around at the sound, startled at the unexpected interruption, and immediately became alarmed at the sight of Messier in the doorway. He hadn't seen this man since his arrival at the house, and stupidly hadn't even considered that he might be upstairs. Certainly the sound of gunshots in the basement would draw his attention.

"What the hell is going on?" Messier demanded, stepping into the room. He looked from Neal to the body of his colleague on the floor.

Not losing his focus, Neal took seconds to give another tug to the chain, finding liberation now as it finally released from the wall, concrete falling away in pieces around the bolt. The last shot had done the job. Neal pulled at the chain, reassured as he was able to watch it move freely, no longer affixed to the building. Now 'free', Neal used that moment in a gust of relief and empowerment to hastily rush at Messier, knowing he needed to use the element of surprise and speed to keep his freedom. He didn't know if the other man was armed. He didn't have time to consider that.

"Hey!" Messier shouted, as Neal pushed past him abruptly, physically pushing the astounded man out of the way. Messier was bigger than Neal, but much more manageable than his colleague, and had reacted slowly as though unprepared for what he found in the basement. Neal had used this to his advantage.

Neal could feel the adrenaline pulsing through his veins as he made it through the doorway, just as he'd been dreaming to do the last three days. It felt like eternity since he'd seen something other than these four concrete walls.

He only made it a few feet out of the door into a hallway, before he felt his leg pull out from under him as Messier grabbed a hold of the trailing chain from within the room and yanked it hard.

Caught off guard, Neal fell forward to his knees, hitting the floor with a painful grunt. He kept a grip on the gun in his hand as he spun around quickly and pulled at the chain himself, adeptly getting back to his feet and trying to maintain the upper hand.

"You're not going anywhere!" Messier shouted at him. He was now pulling out a gun himself from his waistband, but had dropped the chain.

Spontaneously, Neal fired a shot into the room, not directly aiming at Messier, but wanting to get his point across that he wasn't going to be easy to recapture, as he frantically continued to tug at the chain and pull it out into the hall with him. He refused to be held captive again.

Messier fired a shot back, but from an angle. The bullet whizzed by Neal, a few inches to his left, before hitting the wall behind him. Neal stepped slightly to his right as he saw Messier aiming again. But this time Neal had gotten the chain fully out of the room and made a mad dash towards the door in an effort to close it, and to lock Messier inside.

With an image of Messier rushing towards him at the same time, as though he predicted Neal's next move, Neal moved hurriedly succeeded in reaching and slamming the door closed, breathing deeply. He was just locking it with the turn of the deadbolt when the next shot rang out, and he felt the sharp white heat of the bullet as it ripped through the door and into his shoulder. He hissed out loud at the searing pain and pushed past it, succeeding in turning the lock fully to ensure the door was bolted.

He could hear Messier yelling from the inside, and another shot rang out. This time it was clear Messier was aiming at the doorknob and the lock itself.

Panting, Neal knew he had to get out of there and backed away from the door quickly, wanting at all cost to avoid getting in the line of crossfire again. He tucked the gun into his own waistband of his jeans, and then moved down the dimly lit hallway rapidly, coming upon a flight of stairs that led presumably back to the first floor of the house. The chain dragged behind him and he cursed it, pausing to bend down to try to gather the metal links so that he could carry them in his arm. Dragging behind him was loud and potentially dangerous.

He tried to peer down at his shoulder but couldn't. He reached with a tentative hand to touch the fabric of his shirt and winced, pulling away his fingers to see the telltale redness of sticky blood. He didn't think he was bleeding too badly fortunately and swallowed back any concern of it, because he simply didn't have time.

Another shot rang out from behind him and he glanced back in alarm, confirming the door was still closed.

With the chains gathered and held between his arm and chest, Neal proceeded to run up the stairs. He didn't know if anyone else was in the house and didn't want to stick around long enough to find out. His body ached in objection, sharp pain in his ribs and his shoulder, but he knew it would be that much worse if not for the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He heard another gunshot as he reached the top step of the stairs and found himself back in the kitchen that he had first stood in with Messier and Jason three days ago. He remembered where they had come from at that point and he immediately ran in that direction, towards the front door of the house.

He never looked back behind him, longing for freedom and to escape this nightmare once and for all.

* * *

TBC


	31. Chapter 31

It was halfway between leaving the Bureau office and arriving at the closest coordinate on Agnes's map, having driven considerably over the speed limit with little discussion, that Peter suddenly had a thought spark in his mind and realized it was a potential breakthrough.

He gripped the steering wheel as the thought struck him. "Diana," he started, keeping his tone somewhat calm but feeling his heartbeat accelerate. "I think I might have something."

"Yeah?" she responded, tone a mix of question and piqued interest. "Like what?" She glanced up with a frown from her focus on the car's GPS screen and her phone, the two devices from which she'd been mapping out the coordinates from the physical map printout to ensure they were heading to the right destination. She now focused on her boss, noting the change in his tone. It was the most he'd said since leaving the office. With deep frown lines marking his forehead, he'd mostly just intermittently requested updates on how close they were to the edge of the outlined perimeter on the map and then cursed under his breath while ignoring stop signs and red lights en route to their target.

"I think I might know how to find the actual location. Call Jones," he said. "He needs to contact evidence or look in the case file as soon as possible."

"Okay…" She quickly switched her phone to recent contacts and scrolled to locate Jones. "What's he looking for?"

"On the first stakeout," Peter continued. "Neal stole Messier's wallet. And—"

"He what?" Diana looked up in surprise.

"Long story." Peter shook his head, dismissing the follow-up question and the memory of his original anger at Neal while keeping his eyes locked on the road ahead of him. "He gave the wallet to me afterwards. And I brought it into evidence while Messier was in custody for questioning so it had to be inventoried before it was returned to him." He paused. "Have him check the copy of the license. It wasn't New York. It might have been Vermont. I don't remember the details but it could be the clue we need."

"That would be great." Diana nodded and immediately pressed on the contact for Jones in her phone. "Calling him now."

"Thanks…" Peter responded, staring at the road ahead of him and gripping the steering wheel even harder. He silently prayed that the address on the license was the key they needed to narrow down this search. He was determined to find Neal and put an end to this case today.

* * *

Neal nearly made it across the full length of the kitchen and was almost to the hall, making his way towards the front door of the house with long, determined strides, when he heard a commotion behind him.

He continued to run forward while he turned his head to take a glance behind him so he could assess any potential risk to his exit. He saw Messier turning the corner from the basement doorway into the kitchen, and then at that moment made eye contact with him. In that instant, a flash of determination hit him even harder than before, and he tried to increase his pace, watching as Messier raised his weapon, aiming it towards Neal.

"Stop!" Messier directed. "I'll shoot!"

Neal was in the hallway now. He ignored the warning and continued to run, bare feet hitting the wooden floor panels in perseverance. As he reached the front door and tried the knob, he found it locked. He then hastily went for the deadbolt, glancing behind him just once to ensure in that second that the coast was still clear, and turned the lock quickly to free himself. He needed to get out of this house and was determined to achieve that at any cost. He willed his hands to remain steady while he still balanced the chains in his arms. While he did so, Messier caught up to the hallway and fired from behind him, a bullet flying with force to cut through the door a few inches to Neal's right.

"Shit, come on…" Neal muttered out loud, struggling with the door and convincing himself not to let the bullet hole inches from him in the wood unnerve him. In addition to the deadbolt there was a lock on the doorknob itself, and he hurriedly turned that as well.

Another shot fired out, this time hitting just above Neal's head. He could hear the sound of Messier making his way closer with heavy footsteps and found himself feeling thankful that the other man wasn't an accurate shot.

"Stop where you are!" Messier bellowed.

Finally, Neal threw open the door in success and ran.

He didn't look back this time. He knew Messier was behind him and there wasn't much he could do about that. He didn't need to turn around to know he was following and that he had a gun. What he needed was to focus on what was ahead of him and to run as fast as he could towards that.

He felt almost an out-of-body experience as he moved in a flash of speed. In the last three days, he hadn't been very mobile, confined to the single room and to limited activities. Running now was an intense exertion in contrast to the sedentary, solitary confinement in the basement. As he ran, pushing himself for increased speed, his joints and muscles resisted with aches and cramps he hadn't expected. He ran through it as another gunshot fired out behind him. The sound was plenty of motivation to ignore the short-term pain he felt.

He headed to the woods without much consideration of direction other than running straight. There was no other choice. Running down that long asphalt driveway would make him an open target for a considerable amount of time. He remembered commenting on its length when Jason first brought him here. And as much as Messier had proven his target accuracy was less than proficient, he didn't want to risk it. This house was remote. There were no immediate neighbors.

As he hit the end of the cleared property and entered the tree-lined perimeter to pass into the more forested land, he gasped as an unexpected bullet hummed past his ear and embedded itself into the tree just ahead of him, the bark splitting violently at the impact.

He kept running, ignoring the continued shouts from behind him.

He had no idea how long Messier would continue to follow him. He didn't know what to expect and so he simply focused on the space ahead, navigating trees and underlying bushes and shrubs as he simply aspired to be as far away as possible. He was a natural runner, and enjoyed it as a pastime, but running for your life with weakened extremities was a different experience entirely. There was a motivation there that outweighed the painful twinge of resistance in his calves and hamstring.

At the same time, he also felt a sense of overwhelming sensory overload that struck him with excitement and uncertainty. The fresh air, the smell of trees and sap, the sound of cracking branches as he ran, and just the _freedom_ of being outside were all sensations in such contrast to the basement imprisonment of the last few days. Even the reality of daylight was a refreshing disparity to what had become his cursed unending setting the last few days. The artificial light in the basement, paired with nights in pure darkness, felt archaic and foreign. The daylight almost made him squint but he didn't care. He loved it and its energy.

He felt his heart pounding so hard that he could hear it in his head, and he felt it throbbing throughout his extremities.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been running when he suddenly just stopped, gasping for air and bending over slightly to allow a wave of dizziness to pass. His head pounded and he felt a surge of fatigue and energy at the same time. Trying to put his physical feelings aside, he immediately tried to take in his surroundings and ensure he couldn't see or hear anyone on his tail. He could no longer hear the shouting.

All he could see around him was woods. Trees of varying species (he noted hemlock, beech, and maple in one quick glance) were thickly populated. The floor of the forest was a nut-brown, and suddenly in his motionless state he took in the feeling of the branches and leaves beneath his feet. His bare feet. He stared down at them and realized he could feel a vague tingling sensation all over now that he was no longer running, cut only by the feeling of pain in his shoulder from the gunshot wound.

It was at that moment that he looked down that he also noticed his clothing. A dark t-shirt and jeans were simple attire, but after three days of painting, it was a little less simple. Still panting with shallow breaths, he took in the splashes of paint stains all over his clothes and jeans, noticing at the same time his forearms and hands looked similar. He stared at his hands, which were darkened with different shades of various tints of paint. His eyes then shifted to the chains he had piled under his arm.

He shook his head, dismissing his physical state to focus on the need to ensure his freedom.

He stared intently in the direction he had come from, taking a deep breath in and out. There was no sight of the house from here, nor anyone or anything else. He heard nothing but the sound of distant birds.

It didn't seem like anyone was following him, and after running for a decent distance, felt a bit of reassurance that that was the case. But he knew he couldn't be sure. What he needed to do was get further away.

With that, he steadied his breathing and starting off in the same direction as before – away from the house – this time more at a jog than a running pace.

* * *

"Bingo," Diana said as she closed her phone, ending the conversation with Jones.

Peter turned his head, glancing at his agent slightly. Despite the feeling of a pit in his stomach, he felt slightly hopeful. "What did he say?"

"It seems you were right, Peter," she said, quickly looking at the GPS on the dashboard of the car. "Jones had a copy of the evidence files so he checked right away. And the ID was Vermont."

Peter exhaled, relieved but wishing he had thought of this fact days ago. He suddenly felt guilty. Had he really held the address of Neal's location this whole time without knowing it? He dismissed the thought of the missed opportunity, which felt haunting, and said, "Good. Let's check if the address falls within the radius Agnes mapped out."

"Already checking now…" Diana responded. She glanced at the paper map on her lap and the parameter that was outlined. She then continued to punch the address Jones had given her into the car's GPS. She watched determinedly as the address loaded on the screen.

"And?" Peter persisted, hands gripping the steering wheel. He was convinced that he was driving _towards_ Neal, but that wasn't good enough. They had to narrow down a location. This could be the game-changing detail they needed.

Diana stared at the GPS screen and then glanced down to cross-reference the paper map. She did this a couple times, sensing Peter's growing impatience but also trying to familiarize herself with the geography before making an undue decision or misleading statement. She wasn't as familiar with Vermont terrain yet. She could in seconds tell you where to find any intersection in NYC, very comfortable even when streets strayed from the grid, but these rural maps were less routine for her. As she compared the two images a final time, she felt confident as she nodded. "Yeah," she said slowly, then more confidently. "Yeah, Peter. I think you've got it."

"It's in the radius?"

"Yeah, Boss. It looks to be right in the center."

Peter fixated his eyes on the GPS and then returned his eyes to the road, accelerating faster. "Give me directions now. Let's go."

Diana nodded. "We're five minutes away. Make the next left."

* * *

After what he estimated to be another ten minutes or so, Neal stopped running again after feeling a growing ache in his ribs. He stood, panting, the exertion of escaping taking its toll. He was finding it harder to ignore some of the physical pain as the adrenaline of his flight wore off.

He was still in the woods and that was still all he could see around him. He didn't know if he was headed north, south, west, or east. He just knew he was heading _away_. He hoped to reach a road or another house or something soon.

He longed for a way to make contact with Peter or to determine his actual location. It was a rare moment that he suddenly wished to be tracked. His only consolation at this point was that he finally felt fairly certain he wasn't being followed.

With that small respite in mind, leaning against a tree next to him, Neal briefly closed his eyes. He listened to his breathing in and out, and tried to focus himself on his strategy. His shoulder was throbbing and the pain was more pronounced than before, so he tentatively reached to touch it. He opened his eyes to look at his hand as it came away with a vivid red coat of blood, a bolder color than the paint stains blemishing the rest of his skin. He stared at that for a moment, but told himself convincingly that it wasn't bleeding badly.

He knew he needed to keep moving. He didn't have the luxury of rest. He also knew he was weaker than usual. His only sustenance the last few days had been a repulsive ham sandwich served daily paired with water. He figured that explained the headache and dizziness that were inserting themselves now that he was on the move.

The chain he carried was another impediment. He wished for a way to detach it, but also realized it wasn't worth dwelling on that now, given he had no tools at his disposal to even attempt that.

As he stood there, breathing in the fresh air and eyes scanning the deep, tree-lined landscape in front of him, it then suddenly dawned on him that he was free. Once again the sensations and scents of the world around him, sentiments he'd been isolated from the last few days, now filled him with a realization.

The chain was attached to nothing. He had no tracker, no phone, and no contact with the world. He knew people were looking for him, both good and bad, but he was currently by himself.

It was up to him where to go next. If he found a road, or a house, or some form of contact, it was his choice how to leverage that.

He thoughts kept reverting back to Peter, but was that what he wanted?

When was the last time what he 'wanted' was really up for consideration?

His longing to be tracked and to contact Peter was stemming back to when he had no foreseeable options locked up in the basement. When he really saw no ability to free himself and needed help.

He'd overcome that.

Now, this was his first time in a long while outside of his two-mile radius completely unmonitored with no supervision.

The alternative choices at his disposal suddenly struck him, and he frowned, simultaneously feeling exhilaration but conflict. He had options. He and Peter had both acknowledged these sorts of thoughts would cross his mind when out here. Neal had adamantly insisted he could be trusted, and accused Peter of thinking otherwise. But now that Neal breathed in fresh air and finally felt untethered after days on lockdown, his thoughts raced and challenged that status quo. Maybe this was his chance.

He knew he needed medical attention, but there were ways around that as well. If he went to a conventional hospital, a gunshot wound would immediately raise red flags and authorities would be notified. If he could get some medical supplies, and determine the extent of his injuries, he could possibly take care of it himself. The shoulder hurt, but he was also fairly sure it was more superficial than serious. As much as he winced when he focused on it, he'd felt worse pain before. He didn't think the bullet was embedded there.

He thought back to his conversation with Mozzie, returning his memory to Peter's house earlier in the evening before meeting up with Jason that doomed night. Despite Neal's resistance, Mozzie had been determined to convince him to see this part of his undercover assignment as an opportunity.

His words came back to him as he remembered the conversation, as well as how he'd felt conflicted at the exchange taking place while he was in the Burke household.

 _"_ _We've conjectured and hypothesized a million times on what it would mean for you to get freedom,"_ Mozzie had said. _"How to do it. To be rid of the anklet and the Bureau ball and chain once and for all."_

Neal thought about that now as he looked around and then looked up, squinting up at the blue sky and feeling the sun, scattered through the branches and tree leaves, but still there, beating down on him for the first time in what felt like ages. It wasn't cold out but he suddenly felt a chill. Despite everything that had just happened to him, despite the horror and grasping at escape in a life-or-death scenario not long before, Neal suddenly, staring into the sun, felt a sense of peace.

Should he take this as an opportunity? Was this the start of real freedom?

From here, he could go anywhere.

He wouldn't be able to return to New York. Was he okay with that? Was he okay with taking that final step towards the ultimate betrayal of Peter? He'd never see Elizabeth again. He'd never see June again. He'd never sit on his patio staring out at the skyline drinking coffee in the sun.

 _"_ _You don't even have to plan anything here,"_ Mozzie had reminded him. _"It's literally freedom being handed to you. Don't you see that?"_

Mozzie was right. He was absolutely right. The last three days had been miserable. All on account of a case for the Bureau. Neal dismissed the fact he'd been the one pushing to go undercover, and Peter had been the one reserved about it. It didn't matter. It was a reminder that he was nothing more than a pawn for the Bureau as the clock ticked down on the remainder of his sentence. Now he was presented with a complete opening.

Half the battle at times was the anklet. There was no anklet now. There was nothing.

A small sense of thrill sparked through him, though it was short-lived.

Because at that moment he also remembered his own argument in response to Moz. It came back to him in a flood of thoughts, verbatim to many times before. His current situation was a temporary one. Once he served his time as a CI, barring any other extenuating circumstances, he would have his freedom. He had no idea what would happen then, but it would happen, and it would mean he could still keep New York, Peter, June, and Elizabeth in his life. If he continued supporting the Bureau as a CI, he didn't have to take advantage of an angle in this case to force a premature outcome. He could do it the right way.

Right?

"The right way," Neal said out loud. He said it as though he was trying to prove the theory or convince himself.

Mozzie would be disappointed at this conflict.

Peter would be mad that he was even having this conflict to begin with.

The tree behind him felt large and hard. Another wave of dizziness hit him, and he once again closed his eyes. He decided to take just another moment, and then to keep moving. He still had time to decide.

* * *

"Long driveway…" Diana commented as the car made its way up the distance, rocks kicking up beneath the tires.

"Yeah," Peter acknowledged, frowning. He was on edge. Was this truly the address where Neal was? Had he been here this whole time?

"Local PD is two minutes out," she added, having just gotten off the phone with the closest precinct.

"Good… Do they know who lives here?" Peter asked, peering up expectantly at the driveway that stretched out ahead of them. This house was remote... He couldn't even see it yet.

"It ties back to the ID that Messier had," Diana answered. "It's in his name."

"And what about this linkage to the police detective that the car was registered to?" Peter asked. "The one Neal sent the plates for?" He paused. "What's Messier's connection there?"

"Still don't know," Diana admitted, shrugging with a sigh. These were the pieces of the case that they were trying to link together. The 'loose ends,' as Hughes would say.

The driveway continued until finally a house came into view. It was a nice one. Two stories with multiple, large floor to ceiling windows adorning both stories, and a three-car garage.

"Nice house," Diana noted.

Peter nodded, silent. He didn't care that it was a nice house. He cared about what, or who, was in it. He had a bad feeling. He didn't know why.

"You think Neal is here?" Diana asked.

"I don't know…" Peter stared at the house as he put the car in park. He looked at the other vehicle in the driveway and his eyes focused on its license plate. "Well, speaking of the car…" he said slowly. "That's it."

Diana stared at the SUV. "Damn."

Peter turned the key in the ignition to turn off the car. "When we go in, just stay behind me, Diana. Even with the local PD, we need to be careful." He unclasped his seatbelt and started to move out of the car.

"Boss," Diana objected. "Shouldn't we wait for—"

"Wait?" Peter turned and gave her a look. "No. We need to go in."

Diana frowned. "But, Peter. The locals should be here in a minute. We don't know what's in there. If you wait for them—"

"Diana, we have limited time here," he answered, a little curtly. As if realizing his impatience, he quickly added, "Sorry." He sighed. "Look, Diana, I know they will be here soon. And I appreciate that. But I need to find my CI."

Diana paused, but nodded slowly. "Fine. I'm with you." She felt a little conflicted, knowing if the scenario was reversed, Peter would be furious for her to not wait for backup. But she also felt this was a Peter Burke moment not to argue with.

Peter climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind him and began to march towards the front door of the house.

Diana followed him dutifully.

* * *

Neal found a road. It was a relief to finally see something other than trees. Even this road still felt incredibly remote, particularly in comparison to his usual urban surroundings. Regardless, pavement was a sign of some sort of civilization.

Now he had options beyond continuing through the woods. Flag down a passing car, or hotwire one, if he could find one. Follow the road for some sort of business or shop…

He squinted ahead and tried to make out any other details. He focused on a gas station he saw ahead of him.

As he slowly moved in that direction, keeping to the side of the road as he approached it, many ideas crossed his mind.

He knew he looked absurd. He hadn't seen a mirror in days, but from what he could make out, he was a disheveled mess with paint all over him, and was bleeding from his shoulder. He was thankful his t-shirt was dark. Maybe that detail of his injury was less noticeable. But beyond the simple facts of his confinement and the forced artistic efforts, he'd been wearing the same clothing with no option to bathe for days.

On top of that, he was carrying a few feet in length of metal chains, which remained attached to a bond on his ankle.

What would someone think if he walked into the gas station like this? No car would stop for someone that looked like this.

He needed a story. Or a getaway. And if not, at a minimum, he needed to just call an end to it all and get in touch with Peter.

Because what else was he going to tell someone to explain his appearance and his scenario? And be believed and trusted?

He could claim to be part of an FBI investigation. Or he could pretend he had just been in an unrelated incident. He could create fictitious support for his exterior shortcomings. He might have some odd details to explain, but if anyone could do that, it was Neal Caffrey. He might be a bit dirty, but he had accomplished a lot in other predicaments with a simple smile and flashing his blue eyes the right way.

At the same time, he longed to see Peter. He didn't know why. He couldn't explain it. But he wanted Peter even though his mind told him that didn't make sense, for every reason Mozzie had logically laid out for him.

He stared at the gas station, considering his options. Call for the FBI and Peter? Or explore whether there was another way out of this?

After a moment of indecisiveness, his mind went with the latter. He started to focus on this concept for a little bit. He could at least test it. He could decide later if he wanted to pull it off. But if he didn't at least test it, true freedom wouldn't even be an option…

* * *

It was by chance that the local authorities arrived just as Peter and Diana reached the front door the house. The two squad cars pulled into the driveway quietly, no lights or sirens, and Diana found herself silently breathing out a relieved sigh.

Peter and Diana already had their weapons drawn. At the arrival of the backup, both instinctively went for their badges to present their identities.

Four uniformed officers were with them now, and Peter started to debrief them in a low, earnest tone, wasting no time on introductions and simply focusing on tactical next steps.

"We don't know who is inside," he acknowledged, nodding towards the house a few feet in front of them. "But we have reason to believe our federal CI could be held here against his will. There are two other individuals that we are investigating as part of a larger case, and current suspicions warrant an arrest if they're here." He paused. "Did you guys get descriptions of the suspects and the CI?"

The officers all nodded back at him. "Yes," one voiced.

"Good," Peter responded, grateful he wouldn't have to waste time with those details. "Two of you go around back. Two of you come with Diana and me. Be on alert. We don't know if they're armed."

With silent agreement, two of the officers jogged to the side of the house to head around to the back. Peter was relieved that the local authorities were being cooperative and taking his lead. That didn't always happen, and he hadn't been sure what to expect.

"On my count," Peter continued, reaching his hand towards the doorknob of the front entrance. "One… two…" One a silent 'three,' he turned the knob of the door, finding it open and pushing the door open slowly.

He entered the house, taking slow but assertive steps into the front foyer with Diana and the two officers flanking him. He initially didn't see anyone, and called out in an authoritative tone, "To anyone in this house, reveal yourself immediately!" He glanced to his side at Diana and continued further into the room. "You have two federal agents and two police officers present, and we need to talk to you immediately." He paused, waiting for a response and getting none. "There are additional officers surrounding the house!"

He continued to walk down the hall cautiously, eyeing a kitchen ahead of them. He motioned for one of the police officers to head to the other side of the house. They followed the instruction, breaking away to head in the other direction. With Diana and the other officer, Peter continued into the kitchen.

That's when he caught movement towards the other end of the room, a flash of a person trying to quickly move out of view into the next room.

"Freeze!" Peter shouted, aiming his service weapon in the direction of the movement. Then he called out to the other officer, "He's headed your way!"

From the other room, they could hear a commotion, with the officer yelling, "Put your hands in the air!"

Peter hurriedly made his way across the kitchen, feeling the presence of Diana and the other officer at his side. They made their way through the next doorway in time to catch the scene unfold in front of them.

He recognized Graham Messier immediately, with his graying hair, and silver spectacles. He wore a sweater with slacks, and he had a gun in his hand, pointed at the officer that had shouted at him to put his hands up.

"Drop the gun, Messier!" Peter barked out immediately. "You've got four weapons pointed at you! Don't be stupid!"

Graham quickly turned his head slightly at the interruption and at that distraction was when the other officer quickly moved in, nearly tackling the man as he moved in with force, focused on taking out the threat of the gun. A quick cutting blow to Messier's outstretched arm caused the gun to slip from his hand. As it dropped to the ground, the officer skillfully kicked it away towards the others.

Diana hastily moved to grab the gun as he slid across the floor.

Peter approached, lowering his own weapon, as he watched the local police officer adeptly turn Messier around with vigor and swiftly handcuff him.

"This is a private residence," Messier was saying, not resisting physically but clearly unwilling to make this easy. "This is a violation of rights. You have no lawful permission to enter unannounced without a warrant and –"

"You're under arrest, Messier," Peter told him, interrupting and stepping up to address him face-to-face. "The game is up." He studied him intently, trying to keep at bay the surge of anger he felt. Where was Neal? "Didn't think you'd see me again so soon, huh? Now tell me. Who else is in the house?"

Messier narrowed his eyes. "None of your business." He paused and then nearly spat, "Agent Burke."

"Wrong. It is our business." Peter glared back at him, feeling anger radiate from him. "Where is Neal? Where is Jason?"

"Who the hell is Neal?" Messier responded, shaking his head with a look of ire. "This is ridiculous. You need to let me go. I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're not going anywhere for a long time," Peter responded back stiffly. "Who else is in this house? Are they armed?"

"No comment." Messier glared.

"Who else is in this house?" Peter repeated irritably, taking another step closer to Messier.

Messier continued to stare back, but remained quiet, lips pressed together obstinately.

Peter kept eye contact for a brief moment, and then shook his head. He wanted nothing more than to physically slam the other man up against the wall and demand to know where Neal was, but he could already tell it wouldn't do any good. Messier wasn't willing to be cooperative and taking out anything against him physically would only cause more issues than leverage in the situation. "Read him his rights," the instructed the officer. "I can't waste my time." He then turned and met Diana's eye and glanced at the other police officer. "Let's search the house. Be on guard. Call out if you find anything or anyone."

"Got it," Diana nodded.

Peter turned away, heading back to the kitchen with his gun in his hands as he heard the common phrases being spoken in monotone behind him. "You have the right to remain silent and to refuse to answer questions. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present…"

 _Neal_ , he thought with renewed intensity, the pit in his stomach growing. _Where the hell are you?_

* * *

TBC


	32. Chapter 32

_Thank you to those who are still reading and supporting this story. It grew longer than I ever expected so I'm happy some are still along for the ride. I do appreciate the comments and feedback, so I really thank those who have left notes. Here is Chapter 32..._

* * *

As Neal neared the gas station, he slowly and methodically coached himself, thinking through what he would say to the cashier or anyone else inside. This was like going into a different character again. He wasn't Neal and he wasn't Willy. This was a new persona. He was, however, forced to make do with his current appearance, which represented the end of Willy Loman. He had no control over how that had ended and his current form was something he would simply need to work with. At the same time, he needed to ignore the current physical ailments he felt, which required a bit more effort.

With each step, feeling the rough asphalt of the road under his bare feet, he continued to consider different explanations for his appearance and the likeliness of each story passing. As he played out the options in his mind, he tried to think through the natural progression of next steps and dialogue for each chosen path. This is how he weighed them against each other. After all, this wasn't New York or another large city where it wouldn't be unusual to receive an occasional bizarre customer in weird attire and with a strange circumstance. In the city, they might have even had another even stranger customer already that day. He'd seen crazy things in the city that people barely blinked at in reaction.

Here? It was a different story. It was beautiful scenery, and nature, and serenity, but… A single car hadn't even passed as he walked towards the building. Clearly he would stand out, and without money or really any resources, he had to have a strong story and to go on his wit. The chains were his biggest concern. They weren't something he could easily tuck away. Being barefoot was the least of his worries, though his feet were started to protest at the distance covered without any protection or support.

He arrived to the driveway of the gas station, eyeing the large blue and red "Mobil" sign. He slowly walked past the four fuel pumps that were sheltered by a large overhead covering, providing light and a supply of fire suppression equipment, and approached the main building. The gas station was a typical one-story brick structure, with a lot of advertising in the windows. He noted an 'open 24 hours' sign next to another that stated an ATM was on the premises.

Now physically there, he had a decision to make.

He looked around, knowing he had to make a move soon. Loitering could be just as suspicious as criminal activity. He observed that there were a couple cars around the side of the building. Looking up, he squinted down the road ahead and saw more stores in separate lots scattered up in the distance. It looked more populated further up the street. So he had at least found some civilization. It was a welcome change from the time he'd just spent in the forest.

Making up his mind, he reached the front door of the gas station and stretched his arm out to push the door open as he walked through.

Once inside, he was immediately assessing his surroundings. He had to survey the room quickly to see what he had at his disposal to work with, without looking too curious or like he was casing the place. First, his eyes turned towards the cash register, where there was a slim, spectacled young man behind the counter, probably in his early twenties. This person was immediately staring at Neal, though his face didn't give any immediate hint of expression. However, a second later, after making eye contact, the young man's jaw dropped just slightly.

Dammit, Neal thought briefly as he moved further into the store. He knew his appearance would be an issue. And he knew confidence was the only way to get through this.

Act like you own the place, Mozzie always said. You'd be surprised what you could literally walk out of a building with if you were confident enough about it.

So he forced himself to walk closer to the register, approaching with a self-assured gait despite the stabbing pain he felt in his shoulder and ribs, and continued to meet the young man's eyes with direct eye contact and a friendly smile. He paused there in front of the counter.

"Not what you see every day, right?" Neal said with a chuckle and a wide grin. As the other man didn't initially respond, Neal shrugged casually and glanced down at himself briefly, as though he couldn't believe it himself, before looking up to engage in eye contact again. He continued suavely, "Let me tell you the truth, man… This my friend, is a bachelor party gone _wrong_." He maintained the smile and forced another laugh. "What can I say… Tequila, paintball, and…" he glanced down at the chains he was openly holding, "…and bondage. Deadly combination. Am I right? Gotta say, my old frat brothers… Crazy group."

"Um…. You were in a fraternity?" the other man responded, frowning a bit.

"Uh… Yes," Neal answered, nodding the affirmative. Why not. "Yes, I was." He prayed not to be asked which one.

"Is this considered hazing?"

The kid didn't seem too bright. Neal hesitated and then shook his head slowly. "No. Just a bachelor party gone wrong."

The young man, whose nametag said 'Mike', continued to frown. "I'm going to college next year," he said, sounding a little unsure of himself, like he wasn't sure what to make of Neal.

"Best time of your life," Neal responded with a grin. "You'll love it. Just be careful on the tequila or you might have a night like mine." He glanced behind him at the store briefly, spotting a woman with two children towards the far corner. Perfect. He turned back to Mike. "Just gotta get a few things."

"Sure…" the other man responded slowly, reaching to adjust his glasses as though a little nervous or confused.

Neal then turned away from him, heart pounding slightly as he walked further into the store. 'Mike' seemed to have bought the cover story, even if he didn't fully understand it. And he didn't have to understand it or even remember it for this to work.

Neal walked across the floor, the tiles beneath his feet a more welcome surface to step on versus the previous rough street outside and the inconsistent forest floor that had been covered in twigs, branches, and rocks.

He strategically didn't go directly to the woman, but went down a separate aisle, at first faking interest in a variety of options of snacks. Meanwhile, without turning his head in her direction, his eyes darted back over to the woman to study her.

She was of slight build, in jeans and a sweater with blonde hair pulled back into a messy bun. She was also obviously distracted; she was rapidly talking on the phone while also actively trying to maintain control over two small children, both of whom looked under five years old. She had a plastic container of milk in her hand, eyeing the label in scrutiny, with the phone pressed between her chin and shoulder, occasionally reaching down to pull a straying child closer to her.

Neal's eyes cased the perimeter of the store, noting the mirrors that allowed the cashier, if he cared to look, to see into the aisles. A quick glance back to the cashier showed the young man was far more interested in his cell phone than the surveillance of this store. Apparently he was less concerned of Neal than Neal had expected. Unless of course he was texting someone over the strange encounter… There were also a couple cameras, and he noted the angles of both with scrutiny.

Over the years, in perfecting his sleight of hand and other lifting techniques, doing it outside of the view of the human eye was only one angle. Knowing how to avoid being recorded on video security cameras doing the same trick was another important strategy.

He then moved slowly but with direct intention towards the woman. Once he got close enough, he eyed her bag. It was one of those enormous bags that women tended to carry. It briefly brought him back to a discussion with El, when he held her purse as a favor for a moment and it felt as though it contained multiple weights. In questioning it when she returned, she had insisted she carried just the 'essentials', which he never understood. He could go into a detailed, high-risk job that required multiple tools with a fraction of the weight.

Dissolving the memory, which only made him think of Peter and in return gave him second thoughts over this entire situation, Neal moved in.

"I know," the woman said into the phone, tone clearly exasperated, "but that was the only time the damn sitter was available…"

Neal glanced quickly at the kids. One was tracing his fingers along the glass of the refrigerated section of beverages. The other was crouched down, examining a crack in the floor tile. Both were completely oblivious to anything in the world other than their immediate sensory discoveries.

The woman was turned away from him, her bag low on her arm, straps spread and the opening of the bag gaping its exposed entry.

Neal swallowed.

God, the temptation. The details were too perfect.

 _Temptation_? He criticized himself. It wasn't just temptation. This was the _plan_. Why was he suddenly hesitating?

 _You're not hesitating._ He pushed himself, ignoring the negative thoughts. This was it. Freedom. First step was simply gaining a resource. Sure it wasn't the woman's fault, and he hated preying on the innocent, but it was necessary. Desperate times… He couldn't exactly ask the cashier to give him money.

"It actually worked out though…" the woman continued, speaking into the phone. "I called in sick the entire week. Told them the kids _both_ had the flu. Can you imagine?" She chuckled, a little deviously. "It was like a one-week paid vacation. Except with the kids."

Neal suddenly didn't feel as bad targeting her. This women wasn't exactly innocent.

The next step only required walking past her.

Getting the wallet out of her bag only took a millisecond. He walked by smoothly, and with a flash of movement that most would not detect, he slipped his hand into the bag and back out again. His pace never changed and he never looked down except in his initial approach for a quick second to gauge the tactic. Carrying the chains, he'd remained miraculously silent in his approach.

Once he had it, he stepped into another aisle, wasting no time once he noted his angle was out of camera periphery. Opening the wallet, was relieved to find about a hundred dollars of cash. Not many carried cash these days, and he'd been worried to find nothing. He took two twenties and then closed the wallet, though tempted to take a credit card as well.

Returning the wallet was similarly seamless. He simply walked by again and as he passed, it was returned. It was child's play. She never even noticed him passing.

He breathed easily. That lift had been an entirely different experience than when he had taken Jason's cell phone. It took literally no skill, which was good given his altered state of mind considering the effort it was taking to ignore his physical condition. Taking Jason's cell phone had given him a heightened sense of anxiety and fear and dread. This was more of a feeling of thrill.

He stepped down a different aisle, scanning the contents. He picked up a small toolkit that he spotted, eyeing it critically. He looked at the screwdriver inside. With that in hand, he kept walking.

Now he made his way back towards the front of the store. There was nothing here he could use to address the chains, the current bane of his existence. He also considered whether food would make sense at this point. He didn't know if he was hungry or thirsty. To be honest, he felt nothing but pain. His shoulder, his ribs, his overall body… All were in agony. But he ignored this. Now he had a means to move forward.

"So I guess that's the thing about hangovers…" he said smoothly as he approached the counter again with a genuine smile. Mike looked up from his phone with a frown returning.

"What?" the younger man asked.

"Well, first you feel like you just want to eat everything," Neal explained. "You think you're starving. But then the reality is… nothing is appealing. Like anything. At all." He paused and then briefly pressed his lips together. He dropped the toolkit on the counter and then said, "Hey, man, do you carry prepaids? I lost my phone last night."

"Yeah, we do." Mike nodded. "Three kinds. We have—"

"The cheapest is fine," Neal answered abruptly. "Thanks, man. And this." He nodded towards the toolkit.

Mike nodded. "Sure…" He paused. "Uh, by the way… Is…. Is that a real gun?"

Neal froze for a moment. He'd temporarily forgotten about the weapon secured in the waistband of his jeans and had presumed it was covered by his t-shirt. "No," he said quickly, moving his hand to tug his shirt over it. "It's a toy." He forced a laugh. "Looks real though, right?"

"It does," Mike responded, though he frowned slightly.

"Like I said," Neal answered with a smirk, though his heart was pounding. "Crazy party."

"Yeah. Let me get you that phone."

"Thanks." Neal forced another smile while inside he was rebuking himself. _Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy_ … he repeated silently. _Dammit, Neal_.

* * *

Peter finished the search of the first floor of the house with Diana, while a few of the other officers made their way through the upstairs rooms. Meanwhile, Graham Messier was seated in the kitchen, handcuffed and under the direct supervision of one of the police officers. He remained silent throughout the investigation.

It wasn't a large amount of square footage, and this initial search was simply to scan the house for other people or threats. Peter knew after this cursory examination, they'd need to do a more thorough one, and pretty quickly. They would need to look through drawers, files, cabinets, and anything else they came across to do a true investigation to find more evidence. But that came later. First he had to find Neal.

"We haven't checked the basement," he told Diana as they found themselves back in the foyer of the house. Exactly where they had started.

"I saw a door in the kitchen," Diana responded. "I think that might be the way down."

Peter nodded and turned to move. But then something caught his eye. He frowned at the front door and walked towards it.

"What's wrong?" Diana asked.

Peter lifted his hand, moving it to touch a large hole in the door, though it didn't go all the way through to the other side. He frowned and looked at the mark, studying it. "This is from a gunshot." His brow furrowed further as he noticed a similar mark several inches higher.

"So someone was trying to escape…" Diana responded, eyeing the marks herself. "Under duress…" She paused. "I didn't notice that on the door when we came in."

"Me either," Peter answered softly. He studied the marks. "I don't know the composition of this door, but you'd be surprised what can stop a bullet… Despite what they show on television." He turned, feeling just slightly anxious.

"You think that's from today, or recent?" Diana asked.

"Might be…" Peter responded. "I'd ask our friend Graham but… Not sure it would be a good use of time." He paused. "Let's go see the basement."

Before they could walk in the direction of the kitchen to find the door to the basement, one of the other officers was coming downstairs. Peter caught his eye and walked towards him, clearing his throat. "How's it going so far?"

"Nothing upstairs," the officer stated, voice somewhat monotone. "Rooms and closets are empty."

Peter nodded, feeling unsettled that they hadn't found Neal yet. "Thanks. Can you guys check the garage after that? We cleared the first floor, and we're going to check the basement."

"Yes, we're on it," the officer responded, nodding without further question.

Peter was once again relieved on the support, reminding himself to thank Val later despite his less than hospitable feelings towards her earlier in the week.

He and Diana continued back to the kitchen. He tried to avoid but couldn't help sending a glance over to where Messier sat, and found the glare returned. They held eye contact for a moment, and Peter resisted unleashing a threat or some sort of intimidating message. He wanted to demand to know where Neal was and to know what had happened the last three days. But he didn't have enough information yet for that, nor would it be constructive. So he held his tongue and looked away.

The walk down into the basement entailed a flight of wooden stairs, dimly lit, into a small hallway below. Peter found himself taking out his gun as he progressed down the hall slowly with cautious steps. "Diana."

"I'm here," she responded from behind him, also taking out her service weapon.

"Stay behind me," he said softly, not turning his head from straight ahead.

"Will do," she answered, keeping her voice low as well.

Peter walked down the short hallway slowly, staring intently at the door ahead of him. It was half open, and he was anxious to get closer to see through the opening, and to know what was beyond the entryway.

"Boss…" Diana said a few seconds later.

"Yeah?" Peter now glanced behind him. Noting her nod towards the wall beside them, he shifted his gaze over and observed the marks of the aftermath of bullets there. He glanced down at the floor and saw small broken off pieces of the wall there. This was recent.

He nodded back, not responding and feeling a dull sense of uneasiness. He then turned back towards the door ahead of him and proceeded. A few feet away, he observed a few things. On the open door, there was another bullet hole, this time clean through the wood, and the doorknob seemed like it had been through similar treatment. It was hanging askew.

He stomach twisted slightly as he continued to approach, Neal on his mind. Where was he? Had he been here? Was he in this room? Had he been involved in this gunfire?

He pulled open the door further and stepped through the doorway with his weapon extended. He walked in and took a look around, eyes scanning the perimeter of the room. Then his attention immediately drawn to the body on the floor. After taking in the scene, he quickly he made the move to holster his weapon. "Diana, go upstairs and tell them to call an ambulance," he said, glancing behind him at her in the doorway. "It's Jason." He then moved to crouch down and check the pulse of the disposed man. It was steady but slow.

"Got it." Diana took a look at the man as well and nodded before turning to head back into the hall to return upstairs.

Alone in the room, Peter looked the body up and down. He noted the syringe sticking out of the man's arm and exhaled the breath he was holding. "Drugged with something," he murmured out loud. He reached to take the man's arm, shaking him gently. There was no response except for a soft snore.

It appeared the man would be out for a while. Peter frowned at the syringe once more and then got back to his feet. Despite his current condition, Peter felt animosity towards this man, the one who had gotten Neal involved to this level to begin with, and who had done God knew what to him, holding him here over the last three days… But he remained calm. He knew he had to remain objective.

Forcing his eyes away from Jason, he then took a look at the room itself.

He turned his head, taking in the setting before he walked around. He found his frown deepening as he took in the details. It was less of a basement, which he typically characterized as a room with a boiler and other mechanical elements, than truly an underground room. Though some aspects of the room did allude to a basement, such as the fact it was still dimly lit and had a damp smell, it felt more like an underground studio.

His mind quickly took an inventory of the room. He spotted a cot, then the table with a variety of painting supplies, and the canvas that was displayed.

Peter stared at the painting on the canvas for a moment, taking a few steps forward towards it. He studied it. It was excellent, was his first thought, though it appeared unfinished.

He focused on it intently and then briefly glanced at the table of supplies before turning his head back to the canvas. His brow furrowed. Had Neal painted this? This is what he had been doing?

While Neal entered his mind, Neal was not here. He knew all of this was secondary until he could find his CI.

He looked around the room again.

Neal wasn't here. But he had been. He knew it.

 _Neal_ , he thought bleakly. _Is this where you've been for three days?_

* * *

Outside of the gas station, with the prepaid phone and some tools at his disposal, both currently housed in a thin plastic bag, Neal squinted at the daylight and kept moving. He knew the young cashier was skeptical of him, though he had thankfully completed the sale without issue. Neal had observed the distracted woman with her children as he left; they hadn't really moved from where he had targeted them, and she was still on the phone, none the wiser.

He walked away from the gas station, and though he eyed the stores ahead in the distance, he took a turn once on the sidewalk to head to the right, down what appeared to be a more residential street. There were several cars parked curbside along the road and he started to eye them, registering automatically in his mind the need to complete the second step of his plan.

The way his mind processed the cars was simple: make, model, year, and ease of hotwiring. The older the car, the better. He scanned the vehicles as he walked, analyzing each one. He felt he was limping a little but tried not to think twice.

At the same time, his mind was operating on overdrive. His injuries kept creeping into the forefront of his current focus, and he couldn't help that. But he could endure it. He was craving a feeling of freedom and ease, not being on the lam. Being outside of the city, being three days captive, being in pain… It all was muddled in his mind.

His priorities were re-running themselves in his head. He needed a way out, and then he longed for a way to get clean. Figuratively but mostly physically. Three days without bathing, or shaving, or brushing his teeth, or any ability to maintain basic hygiene, was not pleasant. Splashing water on his face had been the only available means of attempting to wash up. Even in prison amenities were more luxurious. The freedom he longed for included a luxurious shower with hot, steaming water.

He eyed an older, dark blue Honda Civic two cars ahead and slowly walked towards it. A quick glance around him indicated the street was relatively quiet. There were many houses, each set relatively about a half acre apart, but he couldn't spot anyone outside.

He stepped off the sidewalk, walking around the vehicle to approach the driver's side. Cautiously, he reached for the handle to open the car door.

Miraculously it was unlocked.

Exhaling a breath of relief, Neal quickly opened the car door and moved to sit in the driver's seat, closing the door behind him, settling his plastic bag of resources, which were also his only belongings, on his lap. He then took in the moment, considering when he had even last been in the driver's seat of a car.

Peter rarely let him drive. It took intense begging. Within his day-to-day radius there wasn't much need to drive. Cabs, sure. But not driving himself.

He sighed, closing his eyes briefly.

He suddenly recalled his airport valet scam that had scored him a Rolls Royce. How that had felt like freedom… What a rush…

Frowning at that now, he looked at the current steering wheel and the dashboard in front of him. He started to move quickly, knowing there was no time to daydream or reconsider.

He reached into his plastic bag, pulling out contents. He opened the gas station procured toolkit quickly, taking the screwdriver and pliers out and discarding the rest to the passenger seat.

With the screwdriver he then adeptly worked to remove the screws of the plastic covering under the steering wheel column. It took a few seconds of work. He then dropped that covering on the seat beside him as well.

Then he viewed the bundles of wires that were now uncovered. He paused slightly in doing so, feeling a sudden wave of dizziness.

 _Dizzy? Why?_ He wondered this in frustration.

 _You're bleeding. You've been shot_. He reminded himself of these things.

 _Focus, Neal_ , he told himself. _Those issues are temporary._

He squinted at the wires and fingered them, carefully considering the options and colors before he targeted the right ones.

He pulled the targeted bundle of wires closer to him, and then studied them. Starter wire was green. A battery wire was blue. The ignition wire was white. The ancillary wires were yellow and brown.

Ignition and battery, then starter. He repeated this mantra in his mind as he worked to strip the wires with the pliers from the toolkit.

Ignition.

Battery.

Then starter.

Another wave of dizziness hit.

He squinted, hissing at a moment of pain that passed.

As it the pain subsided, he skillfully wrapped wires together in a practiced, patient order. His fingers worked barely with any instruction from his brain. This was again basic.

Within a minute, the dashboard of the car lit up.

Next it was the igniter, and before he knew it, the car was live and he was revving the engine. A blast of rock music hit him from the radio and he reached over to turn the volume down.

Now he could go.

But go where?

Neal sat there. The moment suddenly hit him.

Everything had been successful so far.

But what was he really doing? Was he really going to use this moment to attempt disappearing?

Yes, his mind said. This was freedom. This was his next step. He had a few dollars, a phone, a vehicle, and no one tracking him.

He could go anywhere.

When was the last time he was able to go anywhere? He hadn't even been able to go to that art show in New Jersey a month ago… Now he could go anywhere he wanted…

He struggled to decide where that 'anywhere' was… In his current moment, his body was in pain. He didn't even have shoes…

He reached into the plastic bag beside him in the passenger seat and pulled out the prepaid, or burner, phone. He quickly unfettered it from the plastic encasing, and then flipped the phone open. He knew there were limited minutes and power. He had to carefully decide how to use it.

His fingers moved along the keypad to type in a familiar number.

Moz.

He finished entering the ten-digit number and then stared at it.

His finger hovered over the 'send' button.

He hesitated.

He couldn't do it.

Mozzie would be so disappointed. Neal felt like a failure.

It wasn't as though he didn't want to speak to Mozzie. The problem was that calling Mozzie was the next premeditated step in escaping and officially being on the run.

And suddenly Neal really wasn't sure. He just wasn't. He liked New York. His apartment. June. Peter. Sometimes work. There was a sense of recurrence and normalcy. That aspect of life was actually surprisingly hard to find. And he knew what running was like. He knew it wasn't fun.

Neal suddenly felt tired. He suddenly felt in the moment, and felt his options weighing down on him, demanding an answer and for him to decide who he was. Meanwhile, his stomach was twisting thinking through the whole process of it.

If asked a time ago, before Peter, what he would do in this situation, with this opportunity, then the answer would be obvious. In fact, there would only be one answer. This was an unbelievable chance at a new future. An unencumbered future.

Right?

So why didn't it feel that way now?

Now, despite his deliberation in the woods, and his decision to keep optionality, he felt a lack of luster for that option. He had been on the run before. And that was a life of solitude, and fear, and loneliness. He would have to flee all that he knew, and never re-engage contact.

Was he willing to do that? And give up the relationships?

The ache in his shoulder throbbed, a reminder of life's unfairness. His ribs similarly jabbed at him.

He touched his shoulder again and winced. He looked at the blood on his fingers as he pulled his hand away.

He knew he had to be true to himself. To his promise. To his future.

He then canceled the phone numbers he'd typed in the burner phone. And instead he typed in another ten digits.

This time he didn't hesitate before pressing 'send' on the phone.

It rang just twice.

"Burke," came the familiar voice over the phone line, tone curt and brief.

Neal was relieved at the voice despite its brusqueness but didn't yet respond. His mind was reworking the scenario. He knew he should probably leave the car. Someone might see him. He'd already damaged it….

"Hello?" the voice repeated.

"Peter," he spoke into the phone, a little breathless. "Hey. I—"

"Neal," responded the voice over the line, tone now a mix of surprise and relief. "Neal, thank God. Where are you? What number is this?"

Neal focused himself, swallowing. He had to control the situation. He couldn't sound as confounded as he felt. "I'm not far from the house. Did you ever trace that line?" he asked. He was impressed at the steadiness of his voice. At the clarity of his calm question. He at the same time gathered his belongings in the car, piling it all back into the plastic bag. Why had he thought this was a good idea? Stealing from a mother at the gas station? Hotwiring a random car? Why?

"That line? Yes, Neal, I did," Peter responded. "We found it, and I'm there now. I'm at the house. Where are you? Tell me where you are." Peter's voice was now adamant. "Are you okay?

"You're at the house?" Neal asked in surprise. Really? He frowned. Peter was there now? Peter was in Vermont? He realized when he last called him that he hadn't asked Peter his location. He had been completely distracted and consumed by Willy. He assumed they had local agents tracing and helping. The fact his boss would have traveled and relocated for this case confused him. Why?

"Neal. Are you still there? Where are you?"

"I'm sorry," Neal started with a soft sigh, not knowing where those words came from. He slowly left the car, pushing open the door with a brief pull to the handle and stepping out. He left it running, feeling a bit disoriented. He was still a little indecisive about next steps, and what he might be giving up, but somehow calling Peter felt right. Hearing his voice felt right. He was then resolved in his decision, and continued to walk, crossing the street, returning in the direction he had come from. He needed to leave the vehicle that now represented the decision he didn't want to make. The chains he carried were feeling heavier.

He moved away from the idea of escaping. Despite what he had achieved, he told himself it wouldn't be successful… Clearly he needed some help.

"Sorry for what?" Peter asked, tone confused. "Neal, listen to me. Both Graham and Jason are at the house. We've got them in custody. Were you here at the house? Where are you now?"

"You're really at the house?" Neal started in confusion. Both Graham and Jason were at the house, and Peter was there. Neal tried to process this. "Peter. I ran," Neal responded, shaking his head slightly and initiating a headache. Or maybe just recognizing the one he had had all along. He was suddenly flooded with feelings of guilt. He had just hotwired a car… He'd stolen from a woman and her children. What the hell had he been thinking? "I ran from the house."

"That's fine. But to where, Neal?" Peter asked, no judgment passed. He had no idea of the circumstances. "Do you know where you are? Are you hurt?"

Hurt. Neal considered the question. His body felt like it had been through a grinder. He glimpsed behind him at the running car that was now a half block away. He didn't want Peter to worry. "No," he said. "I'm okay." Had these chains been so heavy before? "Let me find the address."

"You're not hurt?" Peter persisted.

Neal paused. As he did so, his shoulder throbbed, his feet suddenly felt raw, his ribs were on fire, and he realized he couldn't lie. "A little."

"What's 'a little' mean, Neal? I can get a medic to your location if you give it to me," Peter persisted.

"No. Just you, Peter," Neal responded, feeling a little more lightheaded as he walked. Maybe if he could just sit down or get a drink of water he'd feel better. "I don't need a medic." He frowned. "My address is…" He looked ahead and spotted a sign. He cleared his throat, which now felt very dry, as another wave of dizziness hit him. He tried to read the words on the street sign ahead of him. He squinted. It was so bright.

"Neal, I can get a trace again, but if you know where you are it'll be much faster. Are you far from the house?" Peter's voice sounded frustrated, but Neal knew it wasn't anger.

"I don't think so," Neal answered earnestly. "I'm on a street now. I'm looking for the address." Neal narrowed his eyes at the sign, still trying to decipher the words on it as he approached. His vision was skewed.

"Neal. _What_ street? You know I need more than that."

"I know. I'm looking. Peter… After I left the house," Neal said, "I went through the woods…" He moved closer to the sign until it came into vision. "I can almost read it now," he said.

"Neal?" Peter responded in concern. "Are you sure you're okay?" He paused. "I can come to you. A patrol car can get there faster but—"

"I'm not going back there," Neal stated, interrupting. He didn't know why he felt a sudden rush of anger. Suddenly everything seemed a little fuzzy. The house. The basement. The painting. The Malevich. The woods. Running. No. NO. He was done.

"Back where? Here?" Peter responded, sounding a little exasperated. "You won't. Neal, answer me please. Where are you now?"

Finally reaching the corner, wondering why it had been so hard go get here, Neal looked up at the street names. In monotone, he read out the words he saw. Another wave of unsteadiness hit as he stated it.

He heard Peter repeat the names. It sounded echoed.

"Is that right?" Peter confirmed.

"Yes," Neal responded, though he hadn't heard a word of what Peter had repeated.

Neal suddenly felt sick. Or was it really so sudden? He'd been ignoring a lot of feelings, both physical and psychological. Now a rush of reality hit him. And he felt he needed to sit down.

Is this what giving up felt like?

The phone was closed in his hand. He looked down at it. Had he hung up on Peter?

Really? Had he? Peter was going to help.

He felt the urge to call him back but couldn't find the energy to do it.

The daylight was so bright.

He thought back to the car up the street, still running. Part of him asked himself why he had done that? The other part of him asked him why he had walked away from it?

There was still time. He could go back.

He turned and looked back up the residential street. It looked so far away. Why was his vision so fuzzy? He knew the car was still there.

A different car drove by, and he watched it pass like it was a foreign object.

That could be you, he told himself. You could be driving somewhere.

Yeah, but where?

His first call had been to Peter. Maybe it should have been to Moz. Moz would have given him the encouragement he needed to move forward and embrace this opportunity. He would have demanded it. Mozzie probably already had something mapped out for him. And the best thing was, Mozzie would go with him. He would not be alone. It would just take that phone call.

He could still call…

Suddenly Neal stumbled. He felt like he was pushed but no one was around him. He was on this corner by himself.

He steadied himself.

Why did he suddenly feel so dizzy?

* * *

"Ambulance should be here in a few minutes," Diana noted as she reentered the basement. She glanced over at the body on the floor as she approached Peter, whose back was to her. He was facing the canvas setup on a stand in the room, but she noticed he had his phone raised to his ear.

"That's right," he was saying. "That's the intersection he gave me. One minute ago." He paused. "Okay, thank you. I'm leaving the house now, and I'm on my way."

"Boss?" Diana questioned.

Peter turned around to face her. He looked energized but worried. "I just got a location on Neal," he said. "Val's going to have one of the local units patrolling the area head there now. I'm going to meet them there."

"How'd you find him? Where is he?" Diana asked.

"He called me," Peter responded. "From another number. He made it away from the house." He paused. "The address he gave me... Val says it's four miles from here."

"Four miles?" Diana raised her eyebrows. "How'd he get there? Is he okay?"

"I don't know. Stay here," Peter told her. "I've gotta go." He glanced at the body. "When the medics get here, make sure they restrain him."

Diana nodded, and before she could say another word, Peter had already rushed past her and was out the door.

* * *

Neal wasn't sure exactly when the daylight became paired with the flashing lights of patrol cars. He had been staring at his phone, with Mozzie's phone number already entered, ready to call though he was struck with indecision.

There had been little activity in this semi-residential area since he'd arrived, and now he found himself in the moment, looking up at two squad cars pulled up to the corner, red and blue lights in constant rotation. He knew they were focused on him.

Frozen on that corner, he resisted the urge to run. He wasn't sure he could run anymore anyway. But when he saw police cars, that's what his mind wanted him to do.

He also suddenly grew concerned that these officers, now approaching him, had been called by the Mobil gas station and not by Peter.

Bizarre, suspicious man with a gun. That's what Mike would have said. Armed man.

There were four uniformed officers approaching him. One of them was speaking. He noted all of them looked at him strangely.

"Neal Caffrey?" one of them asked. It sounded like it was being broadcast in a tunnel.

He turned his eyes to that cop, meeting his eye. "Yes," he admitted, trying to look and sound normal. Feeling normal was impossible, but if he could just exude it… It was also the first time in days anyone other than Peter had referred to him by that name and not Will. Or his newer, recently invented profile. Whatever the hell he'd call that one. Bachelor party Brett, he decided.

"Are you injured?" the cop continued. They seemed to be approaching him cautiously. "Do you need medical attention?"

Neal wasn't sure why he felt the urge to put his hands up. They hadn't told him to. He just expected it. It was an instinct. So he did so, raising his arms up and feeling resistance in his shoulder that he winced at. The chains he'd been holding dangled from the grip in his hand. "Where's Peter Burke?" he asked. Were these local cops here for Peter? The gesture to put his hands up wasn't helping the dizziness he'd been trying to weather through. His heartbeat increased and he suddenly felt like he was sweating.

"He's coming," the same cop responded. "Our call came through him… My name is Officer Reese and we are here to help, Neal, but we have a few questions. Are you injured?"

"A little," Neal admitted.

"Do you need an ambulance?" came the next question.

"No," Neal answered quickly. This would pass. He wanted less of these local officers and just wanted to see Peter to know that this ordeal finally over. Once he saw Peter, they could regroup on the case, they could gather the evidence, they could solve it….

Did they know halfway up the street there was a running vehicle that he had just hotwired?

Did they know that within the Mobil gas station just a couple hundred yards away he had basically robbed a woman and her two children?

"Neal, what are you holding?"

Neal hesitated. He kept his hands raised. Holding, holding… He stated the obvious. "Chains."

While three officers stayed back, the one speaking to him moved forward, a frown on his face. Neal noticed that the man had his hand unpleasantly close to the holster at his hip. Neal glanced down at the gun and thought of his own.

"I need to sit down," Neal said, deciding he no longer could keep ignoring the dizziness.

"Neal, I need you to keep still just a minute," the officer responded, clearly uncomfortable.

Neal was more than uncomfortable.

The officer approached him, and Neal wavered just so slightly on his feet, trying his best to keep it together.

"Neal, do you have any weapons on you?" the officer asked. "Anything I need to be aware of if I pat you down?"

Neal narrowed his eyes slightly. He wasn't sure how to respond. He did have gun. But telling them that, or lowering his hands…

"Neal," the officer repeated his name. He didn't like the way he said it. It wasn't the way Peter said his name. "Do you have any weapons or anything I need to be aware of?"

Neal kept his hands up. "I have a gun." Then he frowned, feeling his soul sinking. Why had he admitted that?

The officer looked on high alert then. He barked back a command to the other cops behind him and they all in return looked on guard.

Then he continued to regard Neal with a serious look, keeping his hand on his holster. "Neal, get on your knees, and please put your hands on your head."

That was a complex instruction that required a physical exertion he wasn't sure he was capable of and Neal frowned.

"Get on your knees," the officer repeated. He now was unholstering his service weapon.

This is it, Neal thought to himself.

At that moment another car pulled up, tires squealing slightly as the car came to a stop beside the squad cars with flashing lights.

Neal frowned at the new arrival. He knew this car.

"Hey!" came the voice of Peter Burke as he exited his car within seconds of arriving. His badge was in his hand, and he initially had his attention on the other officers. "I called this in. I'm FBI. What's going on? This is Neal, he—"

"He has a gun," the lead officer said in response, lowering the weapon in his hand as he regarded Peter patiently.

Peter looked at the officer in astonishment, and then turned to look at Neal who remained there with his hands up. "I'll handle it," Peter said stiffly, keeping his eyes on Neal. "Put the weapons away, please. There's no threat."

The officer hesitated for a moment, but at the authoritative presence of the new arrival that outranked them, finally acquiesced. He took a step back towards his other officers.

Peter then took in the sight of his CI as he approached. He'd never seen Neal look like this. The clothing from a few days ago was wrinkled and covered in paint. The left leg of his jeans was torn open. His hair was unruly, tousled and tangled more than Peter had ever seen Neal allow. His face was pale, with random contrasting strikes of paint and perhaps dirt on his cheeks and forehead, a few day's worth of stubble marking his jaw. His feet were bare and dirty. And was he carrying chains?

But he was there. And alive. And whole. Peter resisted the urge to embrace him as he closed the distance between them. "Neal," Peter said, nearly exhaling in relief. "God, it's good to see you. Are you alright?"

Neal stared back at him, at the moment uncharacteristically silent.

Peter frowned. "You can put your hands down, Neal."

Neal stood there frozen, hands remaining up as the lights from the police cars reflected off of him. It was a look that combined a mix of solemnity and shock.

Peter reached for one of his arms. "Hey. Do you hear me?" he asked. He frowned as he cautiously touched the arm and Neal hissed in response. "Put your hands down," he told him, more sternly.

Neal finally dropped his hands to his sides. With that he also released the chains, as though finally giving up, and they hit the floor in an unceremonious, clamoring pile. However, it was that touch and those words that seemed to bring him back to the moment and realize what was real.

"Peter," Neal said, voice a little gravelly. He swallowed. "I think I'd like to sit down."

"I think we need to get you to the hospital," Peter answered in response as he scrutinized the younger man. "They say you have a gun. Is that true?"

Neal nodded.

"Where?" Peter asked, frowning.

"It's Jason's," Neal answered. "Not mine."

"I know. I'd recall issuing you a gun," Peter responded. "Also not the question I asked." He reached out and started to gently pat him down, running his hands along his beltline, not missing the wincing response he got. "Neal, what hurts?" he asked as he continued to search.

"Everything," Neal responded honestly, muttered slightly under his breath. This was Peter. He could now be honest with himself. He felt Peter's hands run along his waist and then reach the small of his back, where the weapon was tucked away. Peter's hands then shifted under his shirt, swiftly removing the weapon. Neal remained motionless throughout the ordeal.

Peter turned and handed the weapon off to the closest officer. "Get this bagged," he said.

The officer took the weapon and then handed it off to one of his colleagues behind him. He continued to view Peter and Neal. "You need an ambulance?" the officer asked, frowning at the situation.

Peter turned back to Neal and noticed that Neal himself was shaking his head to indicate 'no' at the question. Peter frowned at him and then regarded the cop, responding, "Thanks. I'll take him." He glanced at the other officers. "We're good here. Thank you."

They looked a bit unsettled but nodded in response, moving to turn back to their police cars.

Peter returned his focus to Neal. "Neal," he said his name simply, trying to decide where to begin. He was pretty sure medical attention was the immediate next step. But before he could say so, he was caught off guard when Neal suddenly moved forward, almost in a lurching motion, embracing him with a tight grip. Peter initially grunted in surprise before steadying himself. "Hey…" Peter responded softly as the wavering arms wrapped around him tighter.

"I'm only doing this…" Neal answered softly as he tucked his head into Peter's collar, "because I think I'd fall down otherwise."

"Alright," Peter answered, feeling the warm breath of Neal's response on his neck. He squeezed him back briefly, relieved to have Neal back, but noting the small gasp he got in response. "Neal, you're hurt. And what the hell are these chains? We need to go to the hospital."

"You…" Neal responded in return. He squeezed his eyes closed, focusing on the current image of Peter in his head, of the suit he was wearing. He pressed his head harder into Peter's neck. "You look like you need a dry cleaner."

Peter couldn't help but chuckle, just feeling relief to have finally located his CI. But wiseass wits aside, he knew something was wrong. He stared at the chains at their feet, and then at Neal's bare toes. Neal's grip on him was tightening, and Peter was pretty sure it was a hug for balance as much as it was for comfort.

"Well, I think medical attention might trump that necessity." Peter pushed Neal back from him a little, and the arms of his CI released in response, dropping to his sides. Peter kept his hands on his shoulders to steady him. Neal winced in response, a soft hiss escaping his lips, briefly closing his eyes. Peter pulled back his right hand and looked at the blood on his fingers as he did so. "Neal, you're bleeding," he said in slight alarm. He moved to pull back the shirt to see the extent of the injuries, but he found the fabric had partially dried with the older blood against the skin. Meanwhile, Neal pulled away from him in pain, brow furrowed.

"Stop," Neal told him.

"Neal—" Peter objected.

"Did you get Jason?" Neal asked.

Peter frowned. "Yes. But, Neal, let's worry about that later. We need to get you to the hospital," Peter told him. "Why are you bleeding? Were you shot?" He thought back to the house, at the obvious evidence of gunfire that had been exchanged.

Neal stared back at him with blue eyes, his focus becoming slightly hazy. He was suddenly struck by a quote. "Why am I trying to become what I don't want to be…?" he stated.

Peter frowned at him. "What?"

Neal continued, "When all I want is out there, waiting for me, the minute I say I know who I am…" He paused. "I always liked that line, Peter."

Peter's frowned deepened. He was about to respond to the cryptic message, when he realized Neal was close to losing his balance. So instead he quickly took him by the arm, and pulled him closer, wrapping an arm around his waist to guide him with force towards his car. "First things first. We've gotta get you taken care of."

"I know who I am," Neal repeated again. He allowed himself to be guided and took heavy footsteps. The chains dragged with him and he watched the retreating police cars as they drove away down the street, lights turned off.

"You're Neal," Peter told him. They reached his car and he managed to balance the weight of the younger man, while reaching to open the back door of the vehicle.

"I am," Neal responded. He tried to pull away to stand more on his own. "I'm actually okay, Peter. If I can sit for a minute –"

"Get in," Peter interrupted. He helped to provide support as Neal fortunately acquiesced and lowered himself into the backset of the car without objection. Once there, Neal groaned slightly, scrunching up his face in pain.

"Hey. Are you okay?" Peter asked, pausing as he leaned down into the doorway, eyeing Neal in concern. He instinctively reached out, first running a hand over Neal's tousled hair, then placing his hand gently on the side of his face.

"Yeah…" Neal answered. He stared back at Peter with bright blue eyes. "I just haven't sat in hours…"

Peter's thumb stroked Neal's cheek briefly, not saying anything. As Neal's eyes closed, he then pushed himself back. He then looked down at the trailing chains, sourced from Neal's ankle, and frowning, pulled those up to drop into the car as well by Neal's feet. Glancing at Neal, his eyes remained closed. Closing the back passenger door, Peter sighed, returning to the driver's seat.

* * *

TBC


	33. Chapter 33

_A few notes:_

 _Thank you to the reviewers that do not have accounts. I do actually respond to every comment so I always feel bad when there isn't an opportunity to connect._

 _And a thanks again to my other followers. I'm just glad some still enjoy the story :)_

* * *

Though he realized they weren't yet in the clear, Peter was at least relieved at the fact Neal that was now in his car, and not just conceptually 'out there' in an unknown location and unknown state. He let out a deep breath at that thought as he stood outside his vehicle once getting the younger man settled in the back seat. The last three days had been escalating to this: finding Neal in one piece. But somehow the stress he'd felt the last seventy plus hours did not feel even marginally alleviated. He still felt a tugging instinctual feeling that they weren't quite close to resolution.

But tactical next steps were first.

Ahead of reentering the car to the driver's seat himself, Peter pulled out his phone, though not before glancing through the back passenger door window at Neal, noting his eyes were still closed. Peter remained unsettled at Neal's disheveled appearance and his uncharacteristically clouded demeanor from moments before. He continued to watch Neal through the window for just a moment before again reminding himself to stay tactical.

He briefly averted his eyes from the window and quickly located one of his speed dials to call, raising the phone to his ear as it rang.

"Boss," came Diana's voice over the line after picking up on the second ring. "Did you find him?"

"Hey," Peter said, once again turning his attention to the passenger window and keeping his eyes on Neal. "Yes. And I need directions to the closest hospital. If you could give them a heads up that I'll be arriving there as well, that would be a huge help."

"Of course. But a hospital? Is it Neal?" she asked. "Is he okay?"

"He's hurt; I just don't know to what extent." Peter frowned. "It's hard to tell honestly. I'll tell you when I know more, but for now just give me the address," he continued. "I'd rather get there as soon as possible."

"Okay, just a sec…" Diana was silent for just a few seconds, and then her voice came back over the line as she read out an address to him. "It's only about a mile from you…" she added afterwards. "You want me to meet you there?"

"No, not yet. Stay at the house for now and make sure they start to do a more thorough search… You know what we're looking for. They need to document everything. Photos, especially of the basement. Did they take Jason yet?"

"Yeah, they did…" she said, a little tentatively. "Probably to the same place you're headed. Ambulance left a few minutes ago. We had an officer go with them. Another took Messier back to the station to be booked."

Peter wasn't surprised at the response. He had somewhat expected that. "Alright. After you get in touch with the hospital, if you could give Val a call. Just let her know I have Neal, and where we're headed."

"Will do, Boss," she responded. "I'll talk to you later. Keep me posted."

"Thanks." He ended the call, and promptly moved to enter the car, trying to close the door behind him as gently as possible as not to disturb his passenger. He then quickly turned the key in the ignition to start the car so he could register the address he'd received into the car's GPS, anxious to get to the hospital so he could finally assess Neal's state.

Peter watched the address calculate in the GPS and put the car in drive, glancing at his side and rear mirrors briefly before starting to his destination, continuing to ignore the speed limit.

The hospital being only about a mile away in distance was a welcome update. He had been honest in his response to Diana on Neal. He wasn't sure how he was doing, and it was hard to see past the scruffy, paint covered, dirty version of Neal to detect his true condition. Three days could be a long time, and what had happened during that duration was unknown. From Peter's point of view, if that basement room and the chains attached to Neal gave any indication, it wasn't pleasant. He was also concerned that Neal had ended up nearly four miles from that location. Barefoot. There was also the matter of the injuries, even just the ones Peter had noticed, never mind what might be hidden from view. While typically discreet of his true feelings, Neal had reacted adversely to even gentle touch. And again, the chains. What the hell was with the chains?

When he'd arrived at the scene, Neal was standing there with his hands up, looking in complete disarray and speaking in partial moments of articulacy and other times obvious confusion and exhaustion. His unkempt look was paired with obvious fatigue. The only belongings on him had been a gun, which Peter had removed, and the chains, which were an unfortunate reality until they got to the hospital since there was no other timely alternative way to address it. He hated to think about chains on him, but had no choice but to ignore it for now.

Finding him there with the police pointing a weapon at him… Peter felt sick to his stomach recalling the scene. He couldn't help but consider what might have happened if he hadn't arrived when he did. This whole time, Val had included Neal is her characterization of the suspects. He knew the locals might feel similarly. Once they found out he had a weapon, there was no choice for them to react with suspicion, but Neal was not in the state to adeptly defend himself.

He tried to dismiss the thought. Just as he tried to resist asking the lengthy list of other questions he had for Neal. He wanted to know every detail on what had transpired while Neal was out of touch. But judging by the interaction with Neal so far, and just the walk to get him to the car, those questions had to wait until a later time. As anxious as he was to find out more, he knew he had to be patient and focus on the immediate well-being of his CI.

The case would wait.

Processing this worry, and keeping his questions to himself, Peter simply continued to drive.

* * *

In the back seat of the car, Neal processed his own thoughts and worry. No longer on the run, escaping both a mix of unfavorable potential outcomes as well as the inevitability of choosing between an uncertain new future or status quo, the adrenaline that had been anesthetizing a lot of his physical reality had worn off. It started once he left behind the hotwired car, giving up the chase, and had presented itself in a series of unwelcomed traits. The increased pain, headache, dizziness, sweating, and fatigue hit him like a ton of bricks. He fought it to the best of his ability, but judging by Peter's evident concern, and his inability to stand up straight for more than a handful of seconds, he was pretty certain that he hadn't done a good job.

Right now he was thankful to be sitting.

Neal Caffrey usually had full control over his emotions when he wanted to, with rare exception; however, overcoming a weakened physique made all of that a bit more challenging.

The mix of those physical feelings and what felt like a dead weight of guilt or regret on his soul was a combination that resulted mostly in nausea and an ache in his chest. And it remained guilt _or_ regret because he couldn't figure out yet which one it was. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was a malevolent mixture.

When he first got into Peter's car, there was a moment of… of something. Once in the car, it was almost like a sudden feeling of heaviness. Like he hadn't known how tired he was until finally not moving, or maybe because for the first time in hours he wasn't required to physically defend or even support himself. Fight or flight was gone, replaced by… whatever this was.

He thought he should be relieved to be free, at least in the literal sense of the word versus his recent experience. Liberated. Safe. He had been craving for that for three days. But he didn't feel that way.

Eyes opening after a few minutes of respite, he took in his surroundings. It was familiar and yet not. Peter's car was a common setting, but not the back seat. He always sat next to Peter on the passenger side. He stared at the empty passenger seat ahead of him. That hit him with a pang of some feeling he couldn't quite describe. He then stared for a moment at the back of the driver's seat. The car was quiet, no radio, just the white noise of driving. The car was in motion.

This was the first moment in a long while that he was still and not rushing. He was physically settled though emotionally he didn't feel that way. It was the first time his own physical feelings came to the forefront, not deprioritized over a more critical or physical focus.

But considering the physical aspect, he couldn't decide what hurt him the most. He knew he had some injuries to address. And despite the fact that in his quest to find an independent getaway of his own not long before, during which he'd convinced himself he could take care of any injuries himself, he knew there was no getting out of the current destination, and he didn't bother trying. While he wasn't thrilled to submit to medical attention, and the poking and prodding that went along with it, he acknowledged it was probably needed.

He moved his feet experimentally, and noted they were starting to ache. As he moved them, he felt the resistance of the chains on his right one. He shifted his angle to stare down at the heap of metal, wincing silently as his ribs reacted in a surge of pain. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing back an inaudible reaction.

Most of the time, influence on his whereabouts was not actually a physical one. The Marshal anklet he wore day-to-day didn't _physically_ tie him to the radius, and while he sometimes received threats of physical repercussions if he didn't comply, that was a different scenario. Where he went was technically still a choice. The last three days hadn't been. He longed to rid himself of the reminder of that, which felt more like prison, or even worse.

His thoughts shifted once again to the car that he'd left behind, still running. When would someone notice?

Then another thought suddenly crossed his mind. This thought hit him with a jolt of panic. "Oh shit," Neal suddenly said out loud, sitting back harder against the backseat of the car than he intended, ribs again painfully protesting at the movement.

"Neal?" Peter asked. "You okay?"

Neal glanced up and caught Peter's eye briefly in the rear view mirror. He was frowning, and Neal quickly looked away. He knew his expression was likely a mix of confusion or concern. He felt both and was too tired to hide it. He shifted his gaze out the window, brow furrowed.

His jolting thought was on the plastic bag. That bag… It contained the tools. It contained… He paused as he felt for his pockets. It definitely contained his burner phone.

Leaving the car, he'd had a bag. In his current state, there was no bag.

He had no idea when he'd dropped it. He knew he'd taken it from the car. He knew that.

What did he know beyond that?

Leave no evidence behind. Number one rule. Number one, Neal, he repeated in his mind irritably. Mozzie would be disappointed at this whole situation. Why was he so sloppy today? He internally cursed himself, clenching his hands into fists with weary irritability.

"Neal?" Peter questioned again.

"I'm okay," Neal replied in reflex. He told himself to _focus_. He had to stop losing focus or he would lose everything.

Neal's mind, feeling fuzzy yet strained in its attempt to compartmentalize the last few hours, now started to panic. Scenarios began to present themselves. Surely the bag would be found. Then everything else would be discovered. Then what?

Neal felt his heartbeat in his chest and then felt the cutting feeling of anxiety in his stomach like a knife, while everything else ached in synchronization.

What was going to happen?

Before he could continue to hypothesize, suddenly the door next to him was pulling open, and he looked up to find Peter scrutinizing him again, with that same concerned look on his face. Neal refocused, cursing the fuzziness and pain he felt to put aside those current thoughts and eliminate his frown. He couldn't give his thoughts away.

He then looked beyond Peter to see where they were. He quickly realized they were already at the hospital. He recognized this was the entrance to the emergency room as he eyed the signs around them.

Before he could state that with frustration that this was in fact _not_ an emergency, Peter was the first to speak, now crouching down beside the door to meet his eye level.

"Neal," he started, looking down towards Neal's legs. "You don't have shoes. How are your feet? We can get—"

"They're fine," Neal answered quickly, wincing as his voice cracked slight. He cleared his throat, finding it dry. He considered asking for something to drink. "I can walk, if that's what you're asking."

Peter shook his head and gestured his hand at Neal in a beckoning fashion. "Show me."

Neal slumped his shoulders just slightly at the request, remaining motionless in his seat, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling of the car. This is what he didn't want. His shoulder, sure, that probably needed to be checked out. He had been shot after all. It was still bleeding, though much less than earlier. Everything else… Everything else was superficial. He didn't want to be treated like this. "I can walk, Peter."

"Neal," Peter persisted. "Show me now."

Neal didn't want to fight. He was too tired and felt too vague. So he decided that instead, he could show Peter how this was unnecessary. His feet were fine. So he shifted his posture, trying to hide the wince that threatened to reveal itself at the undertaking, and slid the leg closest to the door outward towards Peter, which happened not to be the leg one burdened by the chain. Offering his leg like this to Peter was a similar movement to when he had his anklet taken on and off, though he was finding it much more cumbersome to move this time.

Peter reached out to catch the ankle approaching him and then tilted the dirty foot upwards to get a better view.

Peter examined the sole of Neal's foot and then swiftly inhaled and shook his head, flinching himself. "Yeah, that's a negative. Geez, Neal. No. You are not walking. It doesn't hurt?" He sighed in exasperation and helped maneuver the leg back into the car before he stood up straighter. "Look, I'm going to get—"

"Not walking?" Neal echoed. "Peter, I've _been_ walking. What are you talking about?" Frowning, he started to shift over in his seat to move from the car. "We're here, and I came without complaining, Peter, but can we just get this over with?"

Peter leaned down again and reached out to catch Neal's knee before the younger man could make the effort to swing his legs out of the car and onto the ground. He cringed at the thought of the foot he just saw touching the dirty ground. "Hey. Stop," he told him. "You're not walking. I'm getting a wheelchair."

"Peter," Neal objected, feeling his headache start to pound. He leaned his head back in exasperation, as Peter suddenly looked blurry, feeling a wave of dizziness that he attributed to frustration. He then lowered his head and forced himself to meet Peter's eye with a stare as confident as he could manage. "That's ridiculous." He internally recoiled slightly at the sound of a nearing ambulance.

"It's not open for debate, Neal," Peter answered stiffly. He leaned in further, holding Neal's eye contact with a stern look, keeping his hand on his knee. "You're hurt. Whether you don't realize it yet, or you're just pretending you're not, just listen to me. You need medical attention. I don't know when you lost your shoes but—"

"He took them," Neal said bitterly, narrowing his eyes slightly. His mind flashed back to his memory of arriving at the house, being knocked out, and waking up in darkness without his shoes, jacket, or bag. He suddenly felt angry and nauseous.

Peter paused, not having expected that answer nor the reaction of resentment on Neal's face. He was silent for a moment and then spoke again, softening his tone. "You were four miles from the house, Neal. How did you get there?"

Neal stared at Peter's hand on his knee. He considered pushing it away but didn't. "I ran," he said.

"On foot?" Peter asked.

Neal nodded. He reached up to rub at the side of his head, where his temples were pounding. He ran. Away from the house was one thing. Away from the gun that was aimed at him. From captivity. That was understandable. But when he got to freedom, he literally took it.

Suddenly he was deep in thought again. In that moment he'd made up his mind and had no intention of ever seeing Peter again. He would never have been in this car again, never mind in the front seat. That suddenly struck him, and he reacted in guilt, pushing the hand on his knee away. As he did so, Peter reacted by grabbing his wrist, holding his arm upright.

"Hey," Peter said. He gripped the wrist gently. "Did you hear me?"

Neal frowned and looked up at him. Hear what? He'd only heard his own conflicting thoughts. "No," he admitted. Peter still looked a little fuzzy.

"I asked you to stay here for a minute," Peter replied, evidently a repeat of words, though his tone was patient. "I'm not debating it, Neal, and I'm not trying to be difficult, but I don't want you walking. This isn't 'a little' hurt. You understand?"

Neal listened. He felt Peter's grip on his wrist, and though it was gentle and didn't hurt, he had to resist the urge to pull back.

"Neal. Answer me. You'll stay?"

"Fine," Neal acquiesced after a short pause, realizing once again he was too tired to argue despite the thought of being pushed in a wheelchair being unwelcome.

"I can trust you to stay?" Peter asked, raising his eyebrows. He softly squeezed the wrist again. "Ten minutes ago you were quoting screenplays like you were miles away from me."

Stay. Trust. Miles away. Neal swallowed, brow furrowed, as he repeated those words in his head. He could have been miles away now. Perhaps the Honda Civic was still running, anticipating the road trip but sitting empty. Was that his last opportunity to ever actually be free?

"Neal," Peter repeated with slight exasperation. He let go of Neal's wrist and the hand dropped to his lap. "Do I need to handcuff you?"

Hearing that word, Neal snapped to the present moment and frowned, turning his head sharply to look up at Peter, so fast it made his dizziness multiply. "What?" he asked defensively. "Why? I didn't do anything." Peter looked very hazy now, and he reminded himself not to move so quickly.

Peter regarded him for a moment, frowning as well. "So you don't leave the car, Neal…" he responded gently. He reached out and carded his hand through Neal's tousled curls briefly, pausing his hand to take out a small twig he found between locks of unkempt hair. He dropped it on the ground.

"I need a shower," Neal commented, sounding a little woeful.

"Yes, you're a bit dirty," Peter acknowledged. He put his hand on Neal's head for one moment, pausing to study him, and then removed it and placed his hand on the top of the car door. "Neal, I'm closing the door, and I'll be back in one minute. Don't move, please."

"Don't move," Neal echoed, nodding slightly.

Peter studied him another couple of seconds and then sighed and closed the door gently. He debated locking the door as a second measure of security, but then dismissed the thought, speed walking from his curbside parking spot towards the ER entrance.

* * *

"As always, I appreciate you keeping me in the loop the last few days, Diana."

"No problem, Sir," Diana responded to Hughes' comments as she stood outside the house with her cell phone to her ear, gazing out towards the woods as she paced slightly in the driveway. She rested a hand on her hip, a bit tired after just providing a longwinded update to her superior's superior, similar to what she had been doing on a daily basis. "Just glad this is hopefully coming to and end soon."

"To think just a few days ago we thought we were getting them on only the art fraud…" Hughes responded dryly. "The charges seem to keep multiplying."

She sighed silently. "That seems to be the case."

"Thanks, Diana. Let me know if there is anything else you need. Keep me updated on Neal and your timelines."

"I will, Sir."

The line ended and she slowly pocketed her phone. She continued to stare at the trees, a serene setting, just for a moment before heading back towards the front door of the house. More resources had arrived a short while ago, and with an empty property, the real search was now beginning.

* * *

Once in the hospital, things moved quickly.

Diana calling ahead, even with little information, was incredibly helpful, as staff moved in immediately to help the expected federal agent and his CI upon their arrival once Peter gave their identity.

Peter felt a little bit inundated with commotion as they moved through what he assumed was their standard process, attributing some of that to his own exhaustion. A large male orderly swanked by a couple of nurses suddenly moved in to take control of the wheelchair from him, and he reluctantly allowed him to. Peter himself was handed a clipboard with pages of forms to fill out by a woman who was there for seconds before disappearing after the handoff.

Glancing down briefly at the paperwork, Peter dismissively tucked the clipboard under his arm and quickly moved to follow the movement of the orderly and nurses, one of whom quickly turned around and held up her hand in a motion to indicate he should stop. They were just a few feet from a set of large swinging doors that led back presumably to exam rooms. Doors that had just swung shut, blocking his view of Neal and the direction they were headed.

He met the nurse's stare, raising his eyebrows in question as he pressed his lips together.

"It's usually family only past these doors," she told him.

He eyed the petite woman firmly. "Well, this is an _unusual_ case," he said, trying not to sound too aggravated while still getting his authority across. He held his badge out once again. "I'm FBI. He's my CI. And he's not going to be out of my sight while I'm here."

She looked at the badge and then back at him without blinking or changing expression as though considering his words. "Fine," she finally responded after a brief moment with a small nod. "We'll make an exception. Follow me." She turned abruptly and walked away, pushing through the swinging doors.

Exception, he repeated in his mind, refraining from muttering it. Putting his badge away with a sigh, Peter followed the nurse through the doors to catch up to the others.

They made a turn down a white walled hallway, and he soon found himself entering an exam room. He took in the counters and cabinets as he entered the sterile room, surely filled with medical equipment, and then turned to view Neal, who was somehow already up on the exam table, sitting stiffly with his legs dangling a couple feet from the floor. He presumed the orderly, who was now no longer present, had something to do with that. The wheelchair was also missing from sight. He stared at the ugly chains that were on the floor in a metal heap, attached to his ankle.

He approached as he overheard one of the two nurses standing beside the exam table asking some questions.

"Neal," she spoke. "The doctor will be here in just a minute or so. We're going to need to clean you up a bit, but we want to address any serious injuries first. Can you explain what happened?"

Neal looked just slightly despondent for a brief moment. Then he seemed to straighten a bit, transforming himself. He looked at the nurse with a wide smile, though it wavered just barely detectably. "Thanks. This is mostly just paint. But my shoulder," he said. "I—"

"Enough," Peter said, shaking his head as he stepped in. The nurses looked behind themselves at him with a frown, and Peter continued, "Yes, his shoulder," he persisted, shooting Neal a look. "But don't fall for that look on his face or whatever else he might have understated. I believe he might have been shot." He noted one nurse looked surprised. She glanced back at Neal in concern. "And his feet need to be addressed. He went a considerable distance long distance barefoot and—"

"Peter," Neal objected.

Peter met his eye and found Neal shaking his head emphatically. "Neal," he responded in warning, walking further to reach the side of the table, standing about a foot from Neal between the nurses. He then turned his attention back to them. "He also showed considerable pain around his waist," he continued. "Earlier when he—"

"Did I?" Neal interrupted, looking a little unsteady on the table.

"Yes." Peter regarded him with a frown, reaching out to put a hand on his leg to steady him. "You do know your acting skills are correlated with your physical health, Neal, don't you? And you've been a pretty bad actor in the last half hour." As Neal simply stared at him, he turned to one of the nurses. "Can we get that doctor you mentioned?"

"Of course." She nodded, quickly leaving the room.

The orderly was returning at that time, holding in his hands what appeared to be a bolt cutter. He approached Neal without a word, crouched down to his haunches, and went to work to cut the dangling chain. Peter took a step back to let him proceed. As close to the metal bond surrounding the ankle as he could, the orderly clamped the jaws of the tool around the chain and with a forceful move, succeeded in breaking the links. The previously dangling chain dropped to join the rest of the metallic pile of links with a clang.

"I'll need another tool for the other part…" The orderly said as he straightened to his height. He looked up at Peter then, and gestured to the metal on the floor. "You guys need this?"

"For evidence, yes," Peter responded slowly. He watched as Neal moved his ankle, back and forth, like he was testing it for the first time without the weight of the chains.

The orderly nodded, gathering up the metal. "No problem." He carried the chains over to the counter and left them on top of the surface before exiting through the doorway.

One nurse remained in the room with them briefly before she said, "I'll be back. I'm just going to get some supplies so we can clean him up a bit." With that, she also left the room.

 _Clean him up a bit_ , Peter repeated in his head as he stared at the most disheveled version of his usually impeccable CI that he had ever seen. Now alone with him, Peter moved a step closer to the exam table and placed his hands on Neal's hips, relieved not to get a wince in response. "Hey," he said firmly. "You've got to be honest with them."

Neal lifted his eyes from his newly freed ankle and gazed back at him, frowning slightly. "Peter, I am…" He closed his eyes briefly then, brow furrowing slightly, as though covering for a wave of pain.

"You're not," Peter said stiffly. "Smiling at the nurses like nothing is wrong isn't going to get you out of here. You need to let them check you out and—"

"I am," Neal insisted, reopening his eyes. "But I do feel a bit better than before. As soon as we get out of here, Peter, we can focus on the case. I lost us three days and—""

"Enough with the case." Peter shook his head. "It can wait. And what are you talking about? You didn't lose us anything, Neal."

Neal was shaking his head. "Peter, really, I'm definitely less dizzy since I've been sitting and—"

"Let me quote you. Mostly just paint?" Peter repeated, raising his eyebrows. "Did I hear that right? Pretend if you want, Neal, but you're bleeding and—"

"I'm not pretending. But it's just my shoulder that's an issue," Neal said, brow furrowing. "I'm fine…" He then trailed off. His eyes shifted beyond Peter, looking towards the door.

Peter turned, gently releasing his hands from Neal, and looked at the nurse returning with a larger man who was clearly a doctor, dressed in a long white coat. The man was middle-aged, graying slightly, wearing glasses and carrying a clipboard. He looked a lot less pliable than his nurses. Peter stepped to the side of the table.

"Neal," the man said as he approached. "I'm Doctor Murphy… I hear you have a few injuries we need to check out."

Neal didn't initially respond.

The doctor looked him up and down. "And it looks like you wouldn't mind if we cleaned you up a bit too, I'd bet," Dr. Murphy continued. He reached the exam table and outstretched his arm to place a hand to Neal's neck, two fingers against his throat, as though checking his pulse, while looking at his face. "I think you're quite a bit dehydrated, Neal. Is that right?"

"I'd like some water," Neal answered, remaining stiffly seated.

"Water," the doctor echoed. "You can have water, but we'll do you even better than that." He located the nurse in the room. "Rebecca, let's get some fluids started, alright?" She nodded and then left the room.

The doctor then met Peter's eye. "You're the Agent, right? The Bureau called us," he said to him. "I apologize I wasn't here when you first arrived, but the ER is always difficult to predict, and I was just finishing up with other patients." He looked back at Neal, frowning at his appearance. "When was the last time you had a tetanus shot, Neal?"

"I don't know," Neal responded, voice a bit gravelly.

The doctor turned his attention to Peter. "Do you know?"

Peter hesitated. He knew vaccines were provided in prison but didn't have the details on hand. "I'm actually not sure."

"Well, I'm inclined to give him one…" The doctor continued slowly, moving towards the right side of the exam table and to Neal's shoulder. "Neal. I see you have some evidence of bleeding here… The nurse says you may have been shot…" he said slowly. He looked up briefly. "Is that true?"

"My shoulder," Neal told him.

"I see that. And we'll check that out now… What else hurts you, Neal?" the doctor continued, scrutinizing the shoulder area. "And I'm not asking what happened, just what hurts."

Neal glanced around the doctor at Peter briefly and then admitted, "My feet."

"Feet," the doctor repeated. "I'm going to take a quick look before we get to your shoulder, alright?" He took a step back and then reached to take Neal's leg, lifting it up to review the bottom of the first foot, then doing the same to the other, not commenting on the metal surround one of the ankles. "Okay, I can see why that would hurt. We're going to clean that up and take care of it. Tetanus shot is no longer an inclination; it's a necessity…"

Peter watched, noting that the doctor's expression never fluctuated as he peered at the damaged feet. His voice remained calm and evenly paced with each statement. He was impressed by the self-control.

"Okay, Neal, we're going to take off your shirt now," the doctor continued, as his hands went to assess the collar of the t-shirt, focused on the site with the evidence of blood, while not noticeable on the dark black fabric except in the stiffness of where it had dried. "Do you have any allergies?"

"No," Neal answered, jaw stiffening as the shirt started to move. His hands moved to grip the table edge at his sides.

Peter heard a noise in the doorway and looked up to see Rebecca returning with a rolling IV pole, two bags with clear liquid hanging from the hooks, lines extending from this with various clips and ports. The wheels squeaked just slightly as she rolled the equipment further into the room.

The doctor looked up at her, pausing in his assessment of the shirt. "Rebecca, before we do that – get me a bowl of saline, will you?"

She nodded, leaving the IV stand, and moved to the other side of the room, opening one of the cabinets.

Peter watched the doctor move away from Neal briefly, going to the corner of the room to a rolling cart that had a tray on top of it with a variety of shiny tools. Peter couldn't even make out what most of them were, even as the table rolled closer to the exam table. His own stomach turned at the medical equipment, imagining their uses. Neal… he thought to himself.

"So here's what we're going to do…" the doctor continued, tone passive. "Where some of the blood has dried, Neal, I'm going to take that off of you as easily as possible, but I'm an honest guy so I'm not going to sugarcoat it for you. I'll make it as easy as I can, but it's not going to be pleasant, okay?" He paused, hands floating over the tray for a moment before he picked up a pair of sharp scissors.

Neal just nodded, not responding, but Peter could see his jaw tightening.

"I'm going to cut the shirt off except for that part, and we'll go from there…" the doctor continued. "Understand?"

"Yes," Neal said.

Peter felt himself become rigid and grew increasingly tense watching. The doctor seemed thoughtful, both in his calm explanations and gentle demeanor, and he was thankful for the unguaranteed blessing of good bedside manner. Still, as thankful as he was to have Neal back, watching the doctor take control was feeling as stressful as when Neal was missing. He hated to see him in pain, but felt helpless to do anything but stand there. He also didn't want to turn away or leave, because that didn't seem fair either.

He watched the doctor work through cutting through the t-shirt, slowly up the middle of the shirt, having started at the bottom hem. He cut slower as he neared the top towards the collar. Neal's expression remained stoic and he sat without moving, still gripping the table. The doctor then did the same, cutting up from a spot to the right, and following the same pattern.

"Okay…" the doctor said slowly. "Now we can take this away…" The shirt outside of the injured area was now able to be removed like a button-down would have been, off each of his arms versus over the head. That fabric was discarded to the floor. "Now, Neal…" the doctor continued, examining Neal's bared torso. "You didn't mention any chest or rib pain." He put a hand up against Neal's side. "I find that hard to believe."

Neal reacted with a deep wince and then said, "It's not as bad…"

"Not as bad…" the doctor repeated. "I don't need a selective list, Neal. I need to know everything that hurts."

"So this hurts too," Neal acknowledged. He grimaced again. "But the shoulder happened today."

Meanwhile, Peter found himself silently staring at Neal's torso, which was covered in mottled bruises, ranging in color. Some of the contusions were a deep purple in color, others were a lighter red. He thought back to when he had patted Neal down for the weapon back on the street corner, unaware of the injuries. Neal had simply winced, and had said nothing since.

"Neal," was all he could say.

Neal looked down at himself, and then he moved his attention to Peter and said simply, "Jason and I didn't always see eye to eye. But eventually I got the upper hand."

Peter stared into the blue eyes, which didn't convey any particular emotion, and he frowned but didn't respond. He was suddenly filled with a rage towards Jason, who was bigger and could already overpower Neal without any need to beat him. He was also perplexed by Neal's attempt to downplay what looked like a very painful injury.

"Neal, lay back for me…" the doctor coached. The nurse was now beside them, holding a plastic bowl of what appeared to be water and a small sponge. "We're going to get the rest of this shirt off and see what we're dealing with. Then we'll get you some fluids. Do you want anything to help manage the pain?"

Neal shook his head to the negative, though the sheen of sweat was now evident on his face as he slowly lowered himself to lay back as directed, resting his weight on his elbows before finally laying flat on the table, legs still dangling down from the front of the table. "No," he said firmly.

"Okay, let us know if you change your mind," the doctor responded. He took the sponge from the nurse, submerging it into the bowl she was holding. He then applied the wet sponge to the remaining fabric, focusing on the stiffest area. "We'll loosen up this a bit," he continued.

Peter frowned, feeling an ache himself as he watched. Now flat on his back, Neal's eyes were closed, face pale and brow furrowed. Peter looked him up and down, eyes locking once again on the bruising across his rib cage and near his belly, feeling once again a surge of anger. The lean, usually unblemished abdomen looked painful, and he wondered if any ribs were broken. It made him think of Neal's old friend, Adam, who had fared far worse, presumably because of the actions of Jason. It made him furious.

He then caught another movement from the corner of his eye.

He looked back up, away from the obvious injuries, and observed Neal's bare arm, now raised and outstretched towards him, hand open.

Peter frowned, looking up at Neal's face, which looked paler than before, but his eyes remained tightly closed and he was quiet as the doctor worked.

Peter took a step closer to the outstretched arm, not hesitating in raising his own hand to enclose Neal's fingers in his own. In return he felt Neal's hand squeeze back tightly. Peter ran his thumb up and down Neal's knuckles softly and said nothing.

"Alright, here we go…" the doctor was saying. "Let's see what we're dealing with…"

Neal's grip tightened harder on Peter's hand as the doctor finally peeled back the previously adhered fabric from his shoulder in one slow but deliberate movement.

Peter looked up from Neal's clutching hand to observe the shoulder. All he could really register was blood, both darkened and dried over, and fresh, brighter red from the immediate injury site, which was evidently starting to bleed again. The wound itself looked to be towards the top of his shoulder.

"How is it?" Peter asked.

The doctor looked up at him briefly. "I think he's pretty lucky, looking at this. I don't think there's much damage. But we're going to flush it, clean it, and make sure that's the case. We might need some stitches."

"He went four miles with that," Peter continued.

The doctor frowned. "Excuse me?"

"With that injury and bare feet. He went four miles today." Peter didn't know why he was sharing this. Maybe he was just expressing his own incredulity out loud. How was what Neal had done even possible? Could a body really endure that? Evidently yes, but he had hard time imaging it.

The doctor whistled as he continued to attend to the wound. "Well, that explains some of this." He shook his head. "What can I say. Adrenaline can be an amazing endocrinological phenomenon. He probably didn't even feel it."

"I feel it now," Neal said through clenched teeth, keeping his eyes screwed shut.

Peter moved his free hand to gently rest it on Neal's brow.

"Here's what we'll do…" the doctor continued. "We're going to take care of this, but I want Rebecca to get your fluids started. Then I want to address your feet. Then we'll see how the ribs are doing." He paused. "My guess is I won't be your friend after this, Neal. My offer on pain meds still stands."

Neal shook his head adamantly to the negative, movement rubbing against Peter's hand.

Peter frowned at the response, and he could tell by the increasingly furrowed brow and tight jawline that while Neal was very quiet, he was also very much in pain. He wanted to tell him not to feel like he had to hide it, but this was what Neal did. He felt calling him out on it would only make Neal aggravated or defensive. So instead he let him squeeze his hand silently, and tried to be supportive.

He started to feel his phone buzz in his pocket, ringer on silent, and ignored it for now.

Rebecca was rolling the IV pole closer to the bed now, and Peter squeezed Neal's hand once before he extracted his fingers from his grip and placed Neal's arm down on the table beside him, watching that hand curl into a fist. He stepped away to let the nurse take the space he vacated, moving towards the end of the table and placed a hand on Neal's knee instead. He looked down, feeling movement in the joint, and noted the movement of Neal's foot, heel tapping against the base of the table as though a nervous fidget. He considered telling Neal to stop, given it couldn't be good for his damaged foot, but refrained and stayed silent.

"I'm sorry I ran, Peter," Neal said then. His voice was somewhat monotone, though he hissed slightly after the statement, clearly related to whatever the doctor was currently doing.

"It's okay, Neal," Peter answered, squeezing the knee through his jeans. "You had to. I'm just amazed how far you got."

"I could have gone further," Neal said mildly. His eyes were open now and he looked at Peter.

"Your feet are thankful you didn't…" Peter answered, shaking his head. He watched as the nurse prep Neal's arm for the IV, wiping down a section of the skin with an alcohol swab, probably more thoroughly than typical, considering Neal's overall state. "Just rest, Neal."

"I am sorry though," Neal persisted.

"Close your eyes," Peter responded back, relieved when Neal obeyed. He made a point to ask the nurse discreetly about adding a sedative to the IV line when there was an opportunity.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

TBC


	34. Chapter 34

While Peter himself thought the morning was exhausting, with each moment feeling painstakingly long, he felt a bit guilty feeling that way given he was just a powerless bystander. As he stood there in an attempt to be supportive, Neal was the one laying prone on an exam table, injured as the result of his three day undercover ordeal, enduring the pain associated with treating those injuries. And of course he was 'enduring' it in the way Neal would; he was persistently covering up any signs of pain or discomfort to the best of his ability.

Peter never considered himself very good at the whole 'comforting' thing. It wasn't in his nature, and he often tried to avoid any situations that dealt with excess emotion. He found it awkward and uncomfortable. Always had. Offering forced condolences or trying to get someone to be less upset? That was just not his expertise. That was much unlike El, who had the calming presence of a patient psychologist without even trying. He often deferred to her in these sorts of situations.

He'd admit, despite this, that it was different with Neal. In the current moment, he was unable to walk away from the exam table and instead felt inclined to try to offer _some_ sort of comfort, however small, even if Neal wasn't directly asking for it and was refusing to actually admit his real pain. He couldn't explain why Neal elicited this overwhelming surge of protectiveness from him, but it was there. In fact, even on a normal basis, Neal's inclination to hide his true feelings often drove him crazy; when Neal evaded his emotions, choosing alternative masks, Peter usually felt a need to try to find his way behind the façade to figure out what the hell he was thinking, whereas with others he'd be thankful at the excuse not to need to know.

So yes, with Neal it was different. He knew that. And seeing him hurt brought that out in full-force. He was sure Hughes would prefer him to let the hospital treat Neal while he got back to the case, specifically to the suspects in custody. But to Peter, that he considered a task for later. He didn't even consider leaving.

When Neal had made the simple gesture to outstretch his hand towards him earlier, Peter had felt initial surprise but also an immediate sense of warmth that reignited feeling of protectiveness. It had validated his presence there. Not that he needed it to be validated, but before that small gesture he found himself reconsidering the best way to act in the current situation. How to be there, if not just physically in the room. Neal confirming, even if silently, that he wanted Peter there was all he needed.

Being wanted there didn't make it easy though. As much as Peter typically avoided emotions, he also avoided gore. He would never subject himself to an up-close spectatorship of medical procedures unless it was unavoidable.

It was one thing for the cursory overview and the questions, which Peter found painful enough to watch, watching Neal trying to fight the instinctual wince or whimper in reaction to pain, feeling a combination of anger and sympathy mounting each time an additional injury became evident, but when it progressed towards more detailed medical treatment, like stitches, Peter found himself needing a break.

He felt incredibly remorseful for that, given Neal didn't have a choice to just step out, but reminded himself it was just for a moment. He just need to breathe, clear his head, and have a moment away from the blood.

With those thoughts, he removed his hand from Neal's leg and took a step from the exam table, turning away.

"Peter?" came Neal's voice within a moment of the break in contact.

Peter paused in place, before slowly turning back around to view the younger man on the table, feeling his heart sink just a bit. As impassive as Neal looked, he couldn't help but notice a glimmer of uncertainty on his face. He responded to that face softly, "I just need to make a phone call, Neal. I'll be right back." His eyes briefly glanced down once again at the bruised skin that made up Neal's lean torso, before flitting back up to his shoulder where the doctor was quietly prepping for stitches with a nurse at his side. He then met Neal's deep blue eyes again, as though asking for permission.

"Okay," Neal responded, eyeing Peter just for a moment before closing his eyes again, turning his head away from where the doctor was working.

Okay, Peter echoed in his mind. He hesitated slightly. One-word answers from Neal weren't ideal or typical, but then again, the younger man currently seemed more concentrated on keeping his expression deadpan than talking. His choice.

He glanced at the doctor again, and he decided the quicker he stepped out, the quicker he could be back.

Once in the hall, he immediately pulled out his phone to call El. He knew the call was to her benefit to fill her in, something he'd promised to do once he had news, but he was equally calling for selfish reasons, wanting to hear her voice and hear some reason.

She picked up after the first ring with an anxious sounding, "Peter?" as her greeting.

"Hey, Hon…" he responded slowly, pacing a little but remaining close enough to the exam room so that he could look in easily, which he was currently doing. "I'm sorry I couldn't call any earlier, but I wanted to give you the news... We have Neal back. Got in touch with him a little while ago, and we were able to locate him."

"Oh thank God…" El's sigh of relief over the phone line was audible after hearing those words, a deep breath exhaled over the connection. "I'm so glad you found him, Hon…" she said. "I was really getting worried. What happened? I mean three days and… and what? How is he?"

Peter hesitated, frowning into the exam room and deciding against full disclosure. "He's okay, El. He's got some injuries that we're dealing with. We're actually at the hospital right now. But he's fine." Some injuries, he repeated in his mind. He was sounding like Neal, understating the scenario with carefully crafted wording.

"Okay or fine?" she persisted.

Peter frowned, caught off-guard by the question. "Is there a difference?"

"Yes, there is, Hon," she insisted, tone a bit concerned. "How badly is he hurt?"

"He'll be fine," he responded, wondering briefly if that was clarification enough. He ran a hand over his jaw. "Some stitches. Bruising." He avoided the mention of gunshot wounds or the extent of the bruising. He again felt the anger return as he thought about what Jason had done to Neal.

"Will he be admitted?"

Admitted, Peter echoed in his head. He hadn't even thought that far ahead. That was the litmus test, he supposed, of whether injury was serious or not. Inpatient or outpatient. If 'serious' was defined by life-threatening, he knew Neal was in the clear, but he also knew Neal had more than just a scratch. He was also concerned about his state of mind. Mentioning he'd 'lost' days in the case? Where had that come from?

"He's being taken care of now..." Peter started slowly, knowing that the comment was vague, and shifting his position to allow a better view into the exam room. "I don't know if they'll keep him, El. I didn't ask. But maybe they should."

"Why do you say that?" Her tone grew more concerned. "You said he was okay. Is it serious?"

Peter paused. He knew El was worried. "No, it's not that serious, El," he responded. More painful, he thought briefly though didn't express that out loud. He didn't want her to be any more concerned. "I only say maybe they should keep him because they know how to take care of him, and –"

"So do you."

Not really, he thought to himself. Not like this.

El seemed to pick up on the pause. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, El," he said, shaking his head. "It's been an exhausting morning." He sighed. The morning had felt like a full day. "But we have him back and they're taking care of him. The doctor said he was lucky."

"Thank God," she responded. "I've been worried sick. And the guys you've been chasing?"

"In custody," he responded. "Hey, hold on a sec, Hon." He put the phone down as the doctor emerged from the room, adjusting his glasses, clipboard under his arm.

"How is he?" Peter asked expectantly.

"He'll heal just fine," the doctor responded patiently. "Stitches are all set…. I also did a check of the ribs. There could be a fracture, but despite the bruising, nothing is cracked. So he's fortunate there. They're going to clean up his feet now. I think that as bad is it looks, once they clean it up, its largely superficial scratches and some blisters. Painful and it'll take some time to mend, but we'll give him some antibiotics, and it'll heal on its own if he takes care of it."

"That's good," Peter responded, nodding. He didn't know what else to ask, digesting the feedback. It was sounding okay. He questioned whether or not to ask about admittance.

"However, he's in a considerable amount of pain," the doctor continued slowly, raising his eyebrows. "He, uh… seems to have a high pain tolerance." He frowned. "Or is a considerably good actor." He paused. "I offered pain medication again, but he refused. If you could get him to reconsider, I think he'd rest a lot better. Resting is half the battle. His body has been through a lot."

Peter nodded. He wasn't surprised by the message. Neal was obstinate when he made his mind up about something. "I'll see what I can do."

"He's also very dehydrated. I'd like to maintain fluids for a while. We'll keep him here until we can get that under control."

"Understood," Peter agreed.

"I've got to make my rounds, but I'll be back a little later. You're in good hands with Rebecca and Andrea, but if you need anything more, they know where to find me."

"Thank you," Peter responded, once again appreciative of the doctor's candor and bedside manner. As the doctor walked away, he returned the phone to his ear. "You probably heard most of that," he noted into the phone.

"I did," she answered slowly. "Go ahead and check on him, Peter. He needs you more than I do. I'm just glad to hear he's alright. We can talk later. Let me know when you think you'll come home."

"I will."

"You know… With cases like this, Peter," she said with a sigh, "it really makes me reconsider how safe the white collar division is…"

"Hon, one thing at a time," he responded gently. That was not a discussion he wanted to start in the hallway of the hospital. "I'll call you later. Love you."

"Love you too. Give Neal my best. I'm glad he's okay."

"Will do." He ended the call and glanced at his phone screen to gauge the missed call from earlier. It was Diana. He flipped open his phone to call back but then noticed the blinking text message. He opened that up and saw a note from her that read, _Not urgent. We can talk later. Focus on Neal._

Thankful, he wrote back a quick, _Ok. Thanks,_ and sent that text before he pocketed the phone again and walked back into the exam room, slightly more clearheaded.

Neal was in a similar position to earlier, but had propped himself up a bit on his elbows, as though to better survey the scene now that the doctor had exited. His injured shoulder was now covered with a sterile white bandage, much easier to look at from Peter's perspective. Less blood was ideal. Focusing on Neal himself, he noted that he looked rather pale. While dirt had been wiped off his face, there were still some remaining smudges of paint on his cheeks in dark contrast to his skin tone.

"Hey," Peter greeted as he returned to the same side of the exam room table slowly, glancing down briefly at the IV tube that was connected to the crook of Neal's arm. "El sends her best wishes, Neal."

"That's nice, thank you," Neal answered, slightly monotone, expression not changing much. He was watching the nurses as they moved. One had a tray with some supplies that clearly looked like they were for getting ready to address and clean up his feet.

The nurse that the doctor had earlier called Rebecca was putting on a pair of latex gloves and took a step closer to the exam table. "Neal, before we start, I'm going to need you to remove your jeans."

In response, Neal's face split into a typical Caffrey smile. "Usually I'd get to buy you dinner before that happens."

Peter rolled his eyes, slightly in disbelief at the response given Neal's state. Despite being completely disheveled and debilitated, he was still flirting. He looked at him, seeing through the shiny smile immediately. Neal looked like he was ready to pass out despite obviously resisting the feeling.

The nurse didn't even react. She just stared at him, looking a little impatient. "Do you need help?" she asked dryly.

"No," Neal responded. He started to sit up, wincing in the process, letting out a small hiss. He halted the movement after a moment and then resignedly rested back on his elbows again, closing his eyes. "I just need a minute."

"Neal," Peter objected, putting a hand on Neal's good shoulder. "Why don't you—"

"I'm fine, Peter," Neal interjected, voice just slightly strained. He reopened his eyes, a flash of determination behind the blue orbs, and then with a small grunt forced himself up to a sitting position, flinching only briefly before steadying his expression. Once sitting upright, he inhaled deeply, letting out a shuddering breath a moment later. His fingers shakily move towards his torso, trying to catch the top button to his jeans but fumbling a bit.

"Neal," Peter repeated.

Neal ignored him.

Rebecca, as though sensing this could take a moment, gave her colleague a quick nod. "Andrea, I think we should get the small basin for water like Dr. Murphy suggested. They should have one in the supply room." As Andrea nodded, she then gave Peter a look. "We'll be back in a few minutes."

Peter gave an appreciative nod, and then maintained his eyes on Neal. His fingers had found the button on his jeans, and he was tugging at it.

"Neal," Peter repeated again, stepping closer to the bed as the nurses left the room. When there was no response or acknowledgement, he caught one of the fumbling hands by the wrist, and said his name more firmly "Neal. Hey."

"I can do it," Neal insisted dismissively, keeping his head down, staring at the project in focus, his pants button. He tried unsuccessfully to pull his hand from Peter's grip. "I'm just a little dizzy and—"

"So stop, will you?" Peter persisted. "Jesus, you're stubborn." He squeezed his wrist. "Take it easy and accept the help." Neal wasn't responding, still staring down at his lap. He finally let go of Neal's wrist and studied him, noting the willful expression and set jaw. "Do you hear me?"

Neal swallowed and then slowly raised his line of sight, turning his head to meet Peter's eyes. "I can do it."

"You know what you can do?" Peter responded in return. "You can lay down." He put his hand on Neal's shoulder and gave him a gentle push.

"Peter, I'm fine," Neal replied.

"You said you're dizzy."

"Because I need water. No one gave me water." Neal was shaking his head now, frowning as though that was the only reason for this issue of coordination and dexterity.

Peter glanced at the IV at that comment and then rolled his eyes slightly, letting go of his shoulder and walking across the floor to the sink that was on the other side of the room. He eyed a stack of small paper cups from a dispenser beside the sink and took one, running the faucet to fill it up.

He took that back to Neal, who took the cup without a word and brought it to his lips.

Peter watched him drink the water with a shaky hand surrounding the cup. He finished the contents in three quick gulps, water trickling down his chin.

"Better?" Peter asked him skeptically as he took the empty cup that Neal extended towards him.

"Yes." Neal wiped a hand over his chin to address the wetness. He then went back to trying to concentrate on the button of his pants, managing to get it undone though not as gracefully or quickly as he would have with full capacities. Next he began to fumble with the zipper.

Peter watched him with slight exasperation for a moment before briefly moving away to place the empty paper cup behind him on a small table near them. He then returned to his position next to Neal. "Hey... Are you done? Can I help you now?" he asked. He watched the scrabbling motion of Neal's uncoordinated hands.

Neal paused, sighing, and looked up at him with an expression that was slightly more of a glare than was probably intended. His hands faltered a few seconds more and then settled on his lap.

Peter took the lack of verbal response, and also the standstill of Neal's own efforts, as acquiescence, despite the sour expression. He moved closer to the table. "Lay down," he told him again, returning his hand to his shoulder, applying just slight pressure.

Neal swallowed again, hesitating.

"Why?" Peter asked. Neal shrugged. "Why won't you lay back?" Peter asked him more specifically. He slipped his hand down off Neal's shoulder to the small of his back, palm flat against the bare skin, bordering the fabric of the jeans. "Aren't you more comfortable laying down?"

"Yeah, but then I start to think," Neal answered, frowning at his own hands in his lap.

"What?" Peter replied in confusion. "What do you mean 'start to think'?"

"That's what I mean. I mean I start to think." Neal paused, eyes casting to another side of the room. He then said, "Never mind," raising a hand to rub at his eyes tiredly.

Eyeing him closely, Peter remained perplexed by the vague comment, but persisted, "Just try to lay back, Neal; will you?"

After a pause, Neal finally slowly started to recline back down, wincing as he did so, remaining silent through the process. Peter pulled his hand back and watched him warily, reminding himself not to interfere.

"Will you let them give you something?" Peter asked, watching Neal's chest move up and down with uncomfortable breathing once he was settled back again, flat against the table. "Don't be stupid."

"I'm not being _stupid_ ," Neal answered, a little irritably, presumably at the accusation. "I don't want it."

Peter didn't respond, knowing in the current moment that pain medication wasn't something to push. Neal was stubborn. Instead he focused on the current task at hand. "Relax," he told him, seeing the rigidness in Neal's form. He resisted putting his hand on Neal's belly like he normally would. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Not on purpose," Neal responded, almost a mutter.

Peter frowned at that, hesitating for a moment. He knew the nurses would be back soon. So he moved his hands towards Neal's waist and silently started to continue what Neal started, first pulling the zipper down. "You're not hurt anywhere else, are you?" he asked carefully.

"No," Neal responded gently, voice a bit less defensive. He reached down to help as Peter started to tug down at the waistband of his jeans, pushing the material down with him and lifting his hips a little to help with the shedding of clothing, grunted slightly. "I don't think handlers are supposed to strip their CIs, by the way, Peter." His voice was strained a bit, as though the effort was painful.

"Call me cruel and unusual," Peter muttered in return.

"Or kinky," Neal responded, wincing just briefly.

Peter shot him a frown, but noted Neal's eyes were closed. He pushed Neal's assisting hands away. "Stop, will you? Relax, I've got it."

"I might have to report you for this," Neal continued, though he placed his hands on his sides obediently. "It's very unconventional."

"Unconventional…" Peter smiled to himself just slightly, somewhat relieved at Neal's sense of humor. It was a welcome change in aptitude despite the situation.

"I'm sure there's a complaint form for this…" Neal continued. "You feds love your paperwork."

Peter didn't respond. He succeeded in sliding the paint and dirt covered jeans down, revealing the pale but unblemished skin of Neal's thighs below his black boxer briefs. He then pushed the same past his knees, relieved to see half of Neal was thankfully unscathed. He then got the point when he knew removing the pants would be trickier. They had to slide over the feet. He knew the doctor had responded that the damage was superficial, but it still looked painful.

"Neal," he started. "This might—"

"Thought you said you wouldn't hurt me," Neal reminded, tone a bit facetious. He was stiffening again as though bracing himself.

"Not on _purpose,_ remember?" Peter responded. He sighed and then continued, trying as gently as possible to slide the pants past the feet, relieved as Neal stretched out his toes, arching his feet, without being asked.

Within a minute, Neal was successfully laying on the table in nothing but his boxer briefs, the jeans discarded in a heap on the floor beside them. He tried to ignore the metal ring that was still around his one ankle.

Peter frowned, observing Neal looked even paler than before. "You feel okay?" he asked.

"I feel naked," was the nonchalant response. Neal opened his eyes in time to see the nurses returning, one of them holding a small plastic basin. He frowned. "This will be fun," he muttered.

"No pun this time?" Peter asked.

"No," Neal responded, somewhat dryly. "I think I've run out."

* * *

An hour later, Neal was finally sleeping and Peter was on the phone with Diana. He stayed several feet away, by the door, but within the confines of the room to keep close watch. He was relieved Neal was finally resting, and that the effort to clean him up and bandage the injuries was over. He studied him as Diana spoke. Neal's feet were cleaned up, bandaged, and he was finally lying on the exam table uninterrupted, chest moving up and down in a somewhat peaceful rest. It felt like an accomplishment.

"Jason is awake," Diana was saying. "But he claims no recollection of where he was."

"No recollection," Peter repeated softly into the phone, pacing just a few steps across the room as he watched Neal sleep. "How does he have no recollection?

"Peter, it's—"

"Did you interrogate him?" He felt impatient.

"Not yet," she answered slowly.

"So who did? We picked him up there. Obviously he's implicated. He can't claim to have no recollection."

"Yes, I know. They're going to move him to the precinct this afternoon. The local PD have been talking to him so far and –"

"Fine," he interjected. He didn't mean to be so dismissive or impatient, but he couldn't help it. This case was taking an emotional toll on him given the turn with Neal. He wouldn't let Jason or Messier deny what they'd done. They were going to pay. "I'll come down there later."

"Today?"

"Yes," Peter said firmly, though skeptical at the commitment. "Today. What about Messier?"

"He's barely talked either."

Peter paused, feeling a surge of anger. He glanced over at Neal. "Okay. I'll come over there later. Do not let them put the two of them together. I don't want them getting any chance at collaboration."

"Of course."

The sound of a gasp from the other side of the room caught Peter's attention and he looked up to see Neal struggling to sit up, looking a little startled. "Diana, I've got to go," Peter said quickly into the phone. He barely let her respond as he closed the device, slipping it into his pocket, quickly walking back towards the exam table.

Neal had managed to sit up, and was breathing deeply in and out, a look of discomfort on his face, hands flat against the table at his sides. His eyes looked concerned, but unfocused.

He didn't hear Peter at first. In his mind was a vivid image from the dream that had just startled him awake. A dream in which he was in the Honda Civic, driving with windows down, radio blaring, just miles from the Canadian border. That part of the dream had been blissful and exciting with prospects of a new future and new territory to explore. Undeniable, unprecedented, unlikely freedom. But then the dream progressed, when out of no where he was surrounded by cop cars, screaming sirens and lights flashing, with voices over a loudspeaker announcing that he had to give himself up or face the consequences. There were guns pointed at him and a feeling of rage in the air. There were helicopters.

In the dream, he had just driven over a strategically placed spike strip, and his car had veered off the road, tires squealing. He was debating trying to drive again, or to leave the car and run.

It was so real.

"Neal," Peter repeated his name.

Neal snapped his attention back to the current room. He glanced at Peter, swallowed, and then looked down at himself. The large bandage adorning his shoulder. The bruises on his torso. The feet, dangling below wrapped in white dressing. Then at the IV.

Peter's hand was now on his leg. He heard his name repeated again.

Neal suddenly felt incredibly bare and susceptible. He didn't care about that in front of Peter, but how was he going to go from here? "My clothes," he started. "What can I wear?" The car, he thought. He wondered if it was still running.

"Your clothes?" Peter repeated. His hand lifted from Neal's leg to his forehand, pressing his palm against the sweaty skin. "Are you cold? You seem warm."

Neal pushed the hand away. He wasn't cold. He wasn't warm. He was distracted and conflicted. He hated these thoughts in his head and he hated being hostage to dreams. He hated that it felt so real. He needed to do something. The case. They had to focus on the case. That was the one thing he could actually offer, and how he could maybe redeem himself. They could still complete the case despite what he had done. He then placed his fingers on the IV line. "Peter, we should go. We need to talk about the case and –"

"The case can wait, Neal." Peter reached for Neal's hand, feeling uneasy as the younger man's fingers tested the IV line. "Leave that alone, will you? It's just fluids."

Neal let out a slightly frustrated sigh. "I know." Then he closed his eyes and stated, "Klint. Magritte. Rubens. Corot. Malevich."

"What?" Peter asked, brow furrowing. What the hell had Neal been dreaming about?

"Peter, why haven't you asked me about the last three days?" Neal asked. "We've already lost time. Don't you want to catch up on the case and—"

"What are those names, Neal?"

"That's what I was doing," Neal responded. "That's what I forged. That's what Jason needed. I didn't finish the Malevich."

Peter paused, processing that information. He thought about the discarded painting on canvas that he'd observed back in the basement of the house. So there had been four others before that. "Neal, we can talk about that when you're not in the hospital."

"Then let's go," Neal answered. His fingers returned to the IV line. "I can do this back at the house and show—"

"No." Peter pulled his hand away from the IV line again. "Did you just have a bad dream, Neal?"

"I had an alternate reality," Neal answered, a bit bitterly.

"Does alternate reality mean a dream?" Peter raised his eyebrows. "Want to talk about it?"

"No," Neal said slowly. He winced slightly, shifting on the table, ribs protesting. "Why talk about that? Don't you want to talk about the case?"

Peter noted that Neal seemed slightly agitated. He didn't know if it was related to the apparent dream, the pain, or something else. Clearly Neal had just been disturbed enough by something to wake him in such a startled way. "I told you, Neal. We will talk about it when you're not in the hospital. Trust me, once you're out of here, we'll nail those guys. Forgery, kidnapping, battery—"

"No," Neal objected. He looked at Peter in alarm. "What are you talking about? No, Peter. Just forgery."

Peter paused, studying Neal with a frown. He realized this was probably too much to get into now, and spoke slowly. "Well, it's more than that now, Neal. You—"

"No," Neal repeated adamantly. He shook his head. "Not me. Them. It's just forgery."

"Neal…" Peter started. "We want these guys to pay. For everything. You—"

"No. Not me," Neal repeated, again interrupting. "I told you from the beginning, Peter. I don't want to be in this case. I don't want my name in this case. I'll give you the information you need, but I'm not the victim."

Peter didn't respond right away. He wasn't prepared for this discussion yet. So he focused on the current situation instead. "Neal, why don't you let them give you something? Clearly you're in pain."

"I'm fine. I'm ready to go."

"Soon. Once they clear you, we'll be out of here. But until then," he reached out and once again removed Neal's straying hand from the IV line, "you need to just relax about the case. And leave this alone please."

"Relax," Neal echoed with a sigh. He closed his eyes and found himself back in the car. The sound of the helicopter was louder and louder. The smell of burnt rubber from the way the car had skidded from the spike strips. It smelled so real.

"Yes, relax. A foreign concept for you, I know," Peter muttered. "Listen. Jason and Messier are both in custody. They're going _no where_ , Neal. We've got them. And with what we have in New York, and at the house, and now this whole thing with you—"

"Not me," Neal repeated firmly. "I told you."

"Fine." Peter dismissed the argument. He made a note to address that later. "Regardless. My point is, we have them. So you can relax until you're cleared to go, and then we'll deal with the case."

Neal reopened his eyes. The smell of rubber and the interior of the Honda vanished, replaced by the image of the sterile white room and Peter's frown. Peter was being nice. Too nice. Too gentle. Peter had no idea. "Is Jason awake?" he asked.

Peter paused and then acknowledged, "Yes."

"That syringe was for me," Neal told him.

Peter pressed his lips together. There was a lot from the last three days that he wanted to better understand. He was resisting asking. He didn't want to interrogate Neal here. Not when he was like this, even if the reduced capacity meant he might have walls down and would provide more information. He wanted Neal to be in control of his statement, and to be able to properly document what Neal told him, which wasn't going to happen here. There was clearly a lot on Neal's mind. "That's how you got away?" he asked.

"I had to take him down. We were going to go somewhere else," Neal responded. "I knew if we went somewhere else, you'd never find us. He knew I called you."

Peter nodded, putting the pieces together. There was a lot they needed to talk about. "You did great, Neal. Really."

"Until I ran," Neal answered. He raised a hand to rub at his jaw, looking distracted.

"You had to…" Peter replied. "I'm not mad about that, Neal." He rubbed his hand over Neal's thigh, trying to be supportive. He wished Neal would just rest. "I already told you that."

"You know what I told Jason?" Neal responded. "I told him that Corot painted three thousand canvases, and ten thousand of them have been sold in America." He smirked, shaking his head briefly. "He didn't get it." He looked at Peter. "You get it. Right?"

"I get it," Peter told him, giving a small smile. He reached out and put his hand on Neal's tousled head.

"It's ten thousand and one now," Neal mused, leaning his head into Peter's hand.

Peter sighed. "Do me a favor, Neal," he said gently. "Rest. I'm going to go find one of the nurses and ask them about when you might be able to get out of here. Sound like a plan?"

Neal nodded.

Peter dropped his hand and slowly walked out of the room, hoping Neal would stay put in the meantime. He looked around for Rebecca or Andrea, fully intending to inquire about a sedative.

* * *

"It's five o'clock?" Neal asked incredulously, hours later. He didn't understand how so much time had passed and why he felt so fuzzy. It was a different fuzziness than he had felt hours before. He felt like there was a thin veil over everything, and like his entire existence was moving in slow motion. He knew he'd fallen asleep, somehow despite telling himself sleep would only lead to revisiting that dream and was a bad idea, but had no recollection of the time that he was out. "Are you sure?"

"Is he okay?" came a woman's question.

Neal turned at the voice. Diana was in the doorway.

"He's fine," Peter's voice responded from somewhere.

The room seemed to waver a bit. Neal suddenly felt self-conscious and a surge of anxiety, realizing he was in the same exam room, sitting up on the table, and Diana was here and he must be – he looked down – not naked… He felt a brief sense of relief but increased confusion. He was somehow wearing a t-shirt and pants that appeared to be the blue scrubs that a doctor might wear. Who had dressed him? When? He'd just been talking to Peter…

He turned his head and looked at Peter accusingly, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Something has transpired," he said out loud.

Diana was frowning, remaining in the doorway. "Peter, that doesn't sound like him," she said. "Are you sure he can go?"

"He can go," Peter confirmed, looking at Neal with an expression that was a mix of amusement and concern.

"What happened?" Neal asked. "How is it five o'clock?"

"You must have been really tired," Peter responded. "You slept most of the afternoon, Neal."

Neal didn't buy that. He squirmed a bit on the table, feeling the pain of his ribs and the dull thud in his shoulder, but it was different. Somewhat muted. "You gave me something," he said to Peter in a reproaching tone, locating him a few feet away. Peter was standing there. Peter had done something.

"Me? I didn't." Peter shook his head. It wasn't untrue. He hadn't personally been the one to deliver the sedatives. He'd only discreetly requested it. And was thankful he had. A quick injection to the IV line had easily done the trick. "But you've been through two bags of fluids, Neal, and they've cleared you to go. So now that you're up, we're going to go back to the hotel."

"Were you here the whole time?" Neal asked. He realized he no longer had the IV inserted into his arm. In fact, the whole IV pole was gone. He looked down at his foot. The metal that had remained on his ankle was now gone. What had happened? Hotel, he repeated in his mind. What hotel? How was it five? Why did he feel so ambiguous? "I can go?" The last discussion he recalled, mixed with helicopters and burning rubber, had included Peter telling him they _weren't_ leaving.

"I was here," Peter confirmed slowly. "Diana was kind enough to bring over the case files, and we've been discussing how to approach the interrogation tomorrow."

"While I slept," Neal stated.

"While you slept," Peter answered.

Neal started to shift towards the edge of the table. If he was able to leave, that was good news. He was sans anklet, tracker, phone, watch. He was clothed yet bare. "Are you going to put the anklet back on me?" he asked.

"Hold on," Peter told him, stepping closer to the table. "They're bringing you a wheel chair. And no. Your anklet is in New York."

"Peter." Neal paused his movement and looked down at his bandaged feet. He suddenly imagined that plastic bag with his tools and burner phone sitting on the side of the road, waiting to be discovered. How many hours had the Civic been running? He realized he'd never even looked at the gas gauge or mileage of the car. He couldn't even make an assessment as to whether it was still running. Would someone call it in?

What about the woman and her children in the gas station? Did she know exactly how much money she had? Maybe she had carefully planned her budget for that day. Maybe because of his actions there was something she would not be able to provide her children. Maybe they would—

"Neal?" Peter asked.

"Boss," Diana started slowly. "Not that I don't mind this version of Neal. It's somewhat tame. But…"

"He's fine," Peter repeated again. He glanced over to her in the doorway. "Can you go check on what's taking the wheelchair so long?"

"Sure," she answered, giving another look to Neal before turning and exiting into the hallway.

"I told you I didn't want anything," Neal told Peter pointedly. The room felt like it was spinning a bit. "Except for clothes. Thank you for that."

"You're welcome," Peter responded.

"But I didn't want whatever you've… whatever you've put in my veins."

"I didn't put anything in your veins, Neal," Peter told him.

"Then why am I floating?" Neal retorted. He briefly closed his eyes. There was the Honda again. The freedom. The air through the windows. The rock and roll on the radio. Hands gripping the steering wheel, untethered. When was the last time he'd been in a car by himself? He tried to think back. When was the last time he chose which way to turn?

"You're not floating," Peter answered.

"Klint. Magritte. Rubens. Corot. Malevich." Neal repeated the words out loud like a mantra. "Klint, Magr—"

"Neal," Peter interjected.

"I'm going to forget," Neal objected, voice insistent. He knew he had to close the case. It was the only thing left. "Rubens. Corot." He shook his head. "Peter. I told you I didn't want anything. I told you."

"You did," Peter admitted. "But you're not going to forget, Neal."

"Malevich. I didn't finish that one." Neal frowned, raising his hands to his face, as though testing he was actually there. "Remington was next. I didn't get to—"

"Alright," Peter responded, shaking his head. "Neal, we'll talk about the case later."

"The helicopters have to stop," Neal said next. "I didn't actually run."

Peter frowned, eyeing Neal carefully. Before he could respond, Diana was returning to the room and behind her was trailing the orderly from that morning, wheelchair pushed ahead of him.

"Neal, your transportation has arrived," Diana stated. She looked at Neal, who appeared quiet and despondent on the edge of the table, and then at Peter, who was clearly focused on Neal. "Okay…" she said slowly.

"We're fine," Peter said. It was unclear if the statement was for Diana or himself. He took a step closer to the table. "Alright, Neal. Let's go."

Go, Neal thought to himself. Empty country roads, freedom to choose which way to turn, option to do anything he wanted… That's what 'go' meant. It didn't mean _this_. This current state of vague existence, lost time, disconnection, people handling him… Not even knowing how he'd gotten dressed.

He felt Peter staring at him and knew he had to snap out of it. So he cleared his head to the best of his current ability and nodded. "I'm ready to go," he said. Normal. That's what he had to go for. Normal. That's how he could solve the case.


	35. Chapter 35

_Thanks to those of you still reading and particularly those that send comments, which are much appreciated. This chapter is long, so I apologize in advance. It's also slightly the result of a disaster. Yesterday as I was working the document, it abruptly become corrupted. I had an autosaved version, but it didn't capture several pages, and needless to say that was pretty discouraging. Rewriting is never fun, and I almost didn't bother, but I forced myself to recover from memory the words I could... So the second half of this isn't on par to what I originally intended, but you can blame my computer for that... Anyway, thanks again for reading._

* * *

The concept of normal remained at the forefront of Neal's mind when they left the hospital. He initially decided that remaining fairly quiet was the best strategy to convey normal given current circumstances. With his thoughts a bit muddled, existing anxiety and confliction now paired with the aftereffects of whatever chemicals were still lingering in his bloodstream, he didn't trust himself to be able to find the right wording to convey himself properly. He recognized that from his interactions just before leaving the hospital. After waking from whatever his medically induced rest could be called, his subsequent thought process had led to him to excessive repeated questions and uneasiness, tainted with the recollection of his daydreams. Diana had even noted he didn't sound like himself. He was keen to avoid a repeat of that.

In addition to the tense vagueness he felt, he was annoyed at his current physical state as well, where he was at least partially reliant on Peter and others. He hoped the weakness and disarrayed mental state were both very short-lived. Being pushed in a wheelchair yet again was unwelcomed, and he was resolved only to allow that sort of treatment while on hospital property grounds. However, he did acknowledge to himself that the brief moment he spent on his bandaged feet to get from the exam table to the wheelchair was uncomfortable. Regardless, once outside the hospital he mustered the strength, to the best of his ability, in order to get himself up from the wheelchair to walk to the back door of Peter's car that had been opened for him in order to get into the backseat on his own, pushing away a helping hand that strayed towards him.

While pushing the help away, he refrained from actually commenting on it, as much as he wanted to express how he felt. To explain that he wasn't an invalid.

It also bothered him that the wheelchair had been specifically rolled to the _back_ seat. Was he now going to be resigned to backseat treatment for the foreseeable future? He didn't ask this either despite it weighing on his currently less than rationale mind.

"Do you want me to drive?" he heard Diana asking before the door to his side closed shut, removing his access to the conversation. For a moment he was alone in the car in silence.

While he couldn't hear the response, soon the front door was opening and he observed Peter getting into the driver's seat of the car, with Diana following suit on the passenger side.

Neal pulled at the seatbelt beside him a bit awkwardly as he heard the ignition to the car start, determined to pretend that everything was routine. As routine as being in the backseat could be, at least. This vantage point still felt unfamiliar. His ribs ached at the movement to grasp the seatbelt, and as he attempted to connect the belt clip over his sensitive middle, he couldn't help but let out a small hiss as he felt a stabbing feeling in his abdomen. It wasn't as easy as he expected.

"Leave it, Neal," Peter told him. "We're just going a few miles."

Leave it. A few miles. Neal looked up and found Peter eyeing him through the rear view mirror. He averted his eyes but dropped the seatbelt effort by releasing it, letting it retract back to its source. With that he sat back dejectedly against the seat, ribs throbbing.

The events of that morning, while weighing heavily on his mind, felt increasingly like distant history. It was hard to digest that he'd woken up in the basement that morning, or to recognize that everything that had happened afterwards had still been that day… The edges of the memories were fuzzier the more he thought about it. He suddenly recalled his movement through the forest, the wind whipping past as he pushed himself, pressing past stray branches and navigating shrubs and bushes, trying not to look back while the forest floor crunched under his feet.

The car was moving now, and Neal looked out the window, processing the rural scenery, transposing himself from the forest into the car. He ignored the hint of dizziness at watching the passing landscape rush by, as he stared out at the trees off the road. He was far from home. He had been so close to getting even further. It felt foreign. "You drove all the way up here?" he suddenly realized.

"Yes." Diana was the one to respond first.

"When?"

"The moment when you went off the grid. Peter didn't even pack."

Neal frowned, processing that. He had kept in touch with them initially, even if one-way, up until the post office. He wondered if they'd been there already. Likely they had, even as a first stop in Vermont. He dismissed the memory of being told to put his watch and phone in the P.O. Box. The moment he knew things were going off plan. Stupid mistake number one. He hadn't even considered that Peter or Diana would come up here so quickly. Then again, hadn't that been Peter's concern? Not knowing the final destination or what manpower they'd have at their disposal locally if something went wrong?

He thought about that, again staring out into the trees, deeply within those thoughts. Everything else seemed to be background noise.

"Neal?" Peter asked.

Neal blinked, suddenly realizing it wasn't the first time his name had been spoken. He'd heard the first two times, but it hadn't registered. "What?" he asked, a little tiredly. He refused to look away from his view out the window. He didn't want to meet Peter's eye again.

"Diana asked you if you're hungry," came Peter's response.

"No," Neal answered simply.

"You sure?" Diana asked. "We could stop for a sandwich or—"

"No," Neal said more firmly as he was hit with a flashback of the repeated ham and cheese sandwiches that had comprised the entirety of his diet the last three days. Without looking up he could feel Diana and Peter's eyes on him, clearly confused by the strong reaction to what was meant to be a considerate suggestion. "No sandwiches," Neal clarified. His mind raced. "Please," he added politely.

There was a noticeable pause after his statement.

"Pizza than," Peter responded after a moment.

Neal continued to stare at the passing trees. If he was going to be honest with himself, he was not hungry at all. He had no interest in eating, but also knew part of assuming the role of normalcy required pretending things like to be interested in food, particularly when enough time had passed without any consumption of anything. "Fine," he replied disinterestedly.

"There was an advertisement in the room. A place that delivers to the hotel," Diana said next, directing the comments at Peter.

Neal himself zoned out, again not hearing the response, if any.

He felt the passage of time was a bit of a blur. During the few miles drive to the hotel, he experienced the return of a multitude of thoughts, which felt more like a thunderstorm than thought process, sorting through which took precedent over paying attention to anything in the present. The thoughts ranged from the first time he'd worked with Jason, to the initial stages of getting involved in the case, to discussions with Peter that had nearly taken him off the case, and then everything that had taken place since. After a while, lost in those details, he felt like he was a spectator and not a participant.

Worst of all, it didn't feel normal. It wasn't like him to not be in the current, not to be aware of every detail around him. And not _just_ aware but gauging and assessing. Not having that focus was frustrating. It made him nervous as though he was missing something. He had to focus and engage with the present in order to close out this case.

His mind felt like a battleground of conflicting thoughts. It was almost as though someone had hit pause and then fast-forward, and then had deleted the tape in between.

That was why he'd refused the medication. He wasn't mad if Peter was the one that had insisted to give him something. He was just aggravated at the aftermath. It was the residual impact of whatever was still processing in his system that caused him frustration.

Arriving at the hotel, Peter parked as close to the entrance as the next available space in the parking lot would allow. Neal was determined to carry on from this point as he normally would, channeling all of the bravado he would typically carry, prepared to resist any and all of the inevitable offers of help. He scowled just slightly when Peter opened the door for him after parking, quickly correcting and eliminating the look on his face before it was noticed. He fought back the urge to tell Peter and Diana once and for all to stop treating him like in invalid.

Peter stopped him before he could start to leave the car.

"What now?" Neal asked in slight exasperation. "If you say there's a wheelchair here, Peter, I swear to God… I'm bruised, not broken."

"There isn't," Peter responded. "That's why I was going to say you should probably at least put socks on."

"Socks," Neal repeated skeptically. He mulled over this request cynically. As he began to question where socks would come from, he watched with slight confusion as Peter walked around the car. He was then met with the older man's ability to magically produce an unopened package of plain white socks from the floor of the other side of the car. Peter ripped open the plastic package to extract a pair, and returned to the other Neal's side of the car.

As he approached, Neal didn't hesitate to swiftly take the socks directly from his handler, ignoring the jab of pain that the quick movement triggered.

Peter met the action with raised eyebrows

"I can do it," Neal told him bluntly, satisfied as Peter frowned but took a step back in consent of Neal's display of independence. Peter simply watched uneasily, holding a thick stack of case files under his arm.

"I'm going to head inside," Diana said, watching the two with a frown and arms crossed over her chest. She met Peter's eyes as he turned towards her. "I'll order the pizza… but I'll give them your room number. After I take a quick shower, I want to head back over to the field office to get the current status and updated reports."

Peter nodded. "Thanks. Stop by for the keys whenever you need them." His earlier pledge to go to the field office or precinct that day himself, committed to the action in a moment of frustration upon hearing neither suspect was talking, had not been feasible. In the moment, it had seemed like the right decision, but he should have known given the circumstances it would be futile. He wasn't going to leave Neal today.

She nodded back and turned to head towards the hotel.

Peter turned his attention back to Neal, who had swung his legs out of the car with an effort that was less graceful than usual and was now leaning forward, reaching towards the ground to force the newly acquired cotton socks onto his feet with bumbling fingers. Peter couldn't see his face, just the tousled dark hair bent over, and as he heard him grunt with the exertion, he resisted the urge to tell Neal to stop being stupid and to just let him help.

With perseverance, Neal managed to get the socks on and sat back up. He tried for a look of accomplishment but instead conveyed a clear sense of discomfort on his face, accompanied by a sheen of sweat on his brow. He avoided eye contact as he pulled himself up, out of the car to stand, using the car door as a point of leverage and more importantly for balance. He then shut the door behind him and leaned against the car briefly, letting out a small breath.

"Neal, if you're dizzy or feel sick—" Peter started.

"I'm good," Neal answered back. His expression smoothed and he gave Peter a small smile, ignoring the small bead of sweat he felt trickling down his temple.

"You do realize you're less valuable to the FBI if you keel over, Neal, right?" Peter replied a bit dryly.

Neal dismissed the remark. "I'm committed to upholding my value, Peter. Let's go."

Peter didn't respond as Neal began the walk towards the hotel entrance in the same direction Diana had headed.

Neal walked with tenacity, though acknowledging at some point he'd have to allow Peter to pass him and take the lead since he had no idea where he was going. But was determined to show Peter things could go back to normal. Despite this, walking was a weird sensation. Since the extreme exertion that morning, which had been fueled mostly by survival instincts and adrenaline, he really hadn't walked at all. His soles felt incredibly sore, and the sensation of walking on sock-clad bandaged feet was unusual and uncomfortable. His legs felt a little wobbly, the extent of his morning run now obvious to his muscles, but he tried to focus on walking straight without any faltering.

Peter trailed a short distance behind Neal, watching warily. He wasn't surprised at the stamina, even if forced, but Neal's persistence to pretend he was back at 100% also frustrated the hell out of him because that in itself was like a con. He refrained from telling Neal that the forced steps he took towards the hotel reminded him more of a baby fawn learning to walk than the smooth swagger that was typical from Neal. He decided that the comment wouldn't be constructive.

At the door to the hotel, which opened automatically by sliding outwards with a whoosh of air, Peter sidestepped Neal to walk ahead of him and into the building without a word.

Neal also said nothing, simply following Peter as they passed by the registration desk in the lobby of the hotel, a clerk on the phone not even looking up as they passed. He was slightly relieved the man was ahead of him so he could reduce the 'show' somewhat and slow down a bit. But still, he knew he needed to keep up to avoid getting another 'are you okay' from Peter. He followed him down the hall resolutely.

Entering the elevator behind Peter as the doors opened, he moved in and leaned against the wall, allowing a wave of dizziness to pass while shifting his weight from one foot to another to try to balance the stress on his soles. He watched Peter press the button for the fourth floor. "Am I in your room?"

"Yes," Peter said simply.

Neal didn't respond. There was a mirror in the elevator. He was afraid to look at his reflection.

"Why?" Peter responded at the silence. "Would you rather be with Diana?" he asked wryly.

"No," Neal returned, frowning. He paused. "Are there two beds?"

Peter looked up at him with a small smirk. "Yes, Neal."

"That's good," Neal said, tone light, still shifting his weight. "I wouldn't want to make Elizabeth jealous."

Peter just rolled his eyes slightly as the elevator doors dinged and closed before slowly ascending to their destination. "Glad your sense of humor is back, Neal."

Neal momentarily considered asking for his own room. But did he want his own room? Not really. He'd spent most of the last three days completely alone, and the brief human interaction during that period of time had been very unpleasant. Neal naturally preferred to be around people, and the deficit of human contact had bothered him over his time in captivity. Just like the periods of darkness had. But then again, Peter was watching him like a hawk now; Neal wouldn't have minded a moment alone just to get a chance to let out some frustration and not put up a front.

Like a hawk… Neal considered his own choice of words and wondered suddenly if the reason he was rooming with Peter driven by trust. Maybe they didn't want him to be alone. He wanted to watch him. After all, he didn't have on the anklet. Maybe Peter knew he couldn't be trusted.

"Neal," Peter said pointedly.

Neal looked up at the sound of his name, frowning. He saw Peter in the doorway of the elevator, holding the door open with an outstretched arm while it resisted with an impatient beeping noise. They were on the fourth floor. He quickly moved forward, entering the carpeted hallway just past Peter and feeling a little self-conscious that he had zoned out briefly. That wasn't like him. He had to stay current.

The sound of the metal doors forcibly closing shut resonated behind him as Peter stopped blocking its intentions.

"You okay?" Peter asked as they walked down the hall, glancing beside him at Neal as though to confirm he was following.

Neal did follow, forcing a casual stride. Another 'you're okay?' minutes after Neal had focused on avoiding the phrase was not lost on him as he silently cursed at himself. "Is Diana on this floor too?" he asked instead, trying to divert the focus.

"Yeah, a couple doors down," Peter answered as he paused in front of a door and reached into his pocket for a keycard.

Neal watched him from behind, frustrated, observing carefully as the man took a moment to locate his key, case files tucked under his arm. He noted the room number, 416, as suddenly a familiar innate instinct kicked in. Considering it a good test of his current state, Neal silently stepped forward, closer to Peter, and attempted the sleight of hand just as Peter extracted the keycard from his side pocket and reached to unlock the door with a swipe across the access pad by the doorknob. The green light on the keypad beeped its approval for access.

Seamless, Neal thought to himself with a small smirk as Peter pushed open the hotel room door and walked into the room. Neal followed behind him, letting the door shut on its own accord behind him. He suddenly and finally felt a real, albeit small, sense of normalcy. He didn't know why the small trick made him feel ordinary. It just did.

He stood by the door for a moment, smirk lingering as he studied the room. It was a pretty standard hotel accommodation, with two double beds, a closet, a desk, and a wall unit that contained a television. Compared to where he had slept the last couple of nights, it looked somewhat inviting, even despite the poor choice in wallpaper, the outdated carpet, and the comforters on the beds that looked undeniably scratchy and stiff. The room also didn't look like it had been touched; clearly Peter hadn't spent much time here.

Suddenly the view of the room was blocked, replaced with that of Peter's tie as the man stepped into his line of sight, directly in front of him.

"Hand it over," Peter said stiffly.

Neal looked up to meet the eyes of his handler. He raised his eyebrows questioningly and then looked down to see Peter's open palm extended in front of him. Neal hesitated for a moment, and then responded by lifting his own hand to deposit the wallet into the waiting fingers without a word.

Peter gave him a look. He then gently thwacked Neal on his hip with the handful of case files he'd been holding before pocketing his wallet and walking away towards the other side of the room.

"How'd you know?" Neal asked curiously.

"Because I know whenever I turn my back on you for a second and you get that look on your face, that you're up to something." Peter dropped the case files down on the desk. "And I guess even a trip to the ER won't change that."

"You didn't feel it?"

"No," Peter admitted, turning to look back at Neal with a questioning frown.

Neal accepted that response with a small nod, barely detectable, waiting for further admonishment that didn't come. Being caught because of Peter's instinct was different than really being caught. The lift itself had been undetected and that was a success. Of course he wasn't rusty. Good training was good training and could come in to play at any time. Just like the woman at the gas station had no idea… Except that one he still felt bad about.

Neal dismissed the thought.

"What time is it?" Neal asked. The question he had asked numerous times without response over the last few days.

"Six-thirty," Peter responded with a brief glance at his watch.

It felt later, but Neal didn't want to say so. He suddenly felt uncomfortable in the room. He was used to close quarters with Peter, but he now felt like there was another world squeezed into this limited square footage with them. A world that was host to undisclosed information and ulterior motives. And he was curious why Peter hadn't asked him anything yet. He said once they were out of the hospital, it would be back to the case. But he hadn't mentioned the case once. Didn't he want to continue the discussion? Wasn't he curious what had happened? Didn't he have questions?

Neal's thoughts took another path. Maybe at the hospital he had already told him something? Is that why he wasn't asking? He suddenly grew wary at the thought and felt a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach behind the aching ribs. When they had given him something for the pain, had he simply fallen asleep? Or had he started to talk? He couldn't remember and that made him nervous. Had anything else happened?

His feet ached, but he was staring at Peter now with a sense of foreboding and wasn't sure where he wanted to go to in the room, so he stayed by the door.

"Did I tell you anything?" Neal asked, keeping his voice steady and watching Peter remove his jacket. The man draped it over the desk chair in the room. "At the hospital?"

"Like what?" Peter asked casually. He was now slipping his shoes off, kicking them aside to a corner of the room.

That sounded like a trick question in Neal's mind. And he paused. If Peter _knew_ , then he wasn't acting like it, but that didn't mean anything. In fact Peter was breaking one of his own rules – answering a question with a question. Now was the first time they were really alone. Maybe he had been waiting to bring it up. "Like what happened," Neal continued carefully. "What I did the past few days. What Jason did. I don't remember what I told you." He hated to admit that, and wouldn't to anyone other than Peter. Admitting to not remember something only made you vulnerable. It subjected you to suspicion or planted suggestions.

"Not much, Neal," Peter acknowledged slowly, rubbing a tired hand against the back his neck before addressing the tie he was wearing, starting to pull it loose. "Most of the time we were there was really just focused on getting you fixed up. And then you slept. You told me the names of the artists you were working on..."

Neal nodded slightly, the names repeating themselves briefly in his mind in a brief chorus like a chant. He noticed a door to his left, presumably the bathroom. "What else?" He noted the location of the windows in the room. Why was he suddenly casing the place?

"Not much else," Peter answered, giving him a bit of a curious look at the continued questions. "Why?"

"Did you see the house?" Neal asked.

"Yes," Peter replied. He dropped his freed tie onto the bed next to him and turned towards Neal as he pulled his shirt to be untucked, more casual. "Are you going to actually come into the room, Neal?"

Neal remained in the entryway, conscious that he was now leaning back against the door for support. He wasn't sure when he had leaned back, but now pushed away from it to stand at full posture. He continued to look at Peter, who was resembling more 'home' Peter than 'work' Peter in his state of undress.

Peter had seen the house. But he didn't want to talk about it?

"You don't want to talk about?" Neal asked out loud.

"Neal. The doctor said you'd feel better tomorrow if you stayed off your feet today," Peter told him.

Neal acknowledged that with a nod and took a few steps further into the room. He realized he should sit soon. The dizziness was returning. As he slowly walked in, he took in the room again and tried to decide what this evening would entail. A lot was weighing on his mind, and he was now confined between another four walls, unable to leave on his own accord, albeit in a very different circumstance. But there was uncertainty here, around what Peter might or might not know, and whether Peter wanted to talk or not. Or whether he himself did.

There was a knock on the door that startled him slightly, and he turned slightly to view the wooden surface.

"That'll be Diana for the keys…" Peter said quickly, moving towards Neal, or rather the door. He slipped his hand onto Neal's back briefly as he passed him. "Sit down…" he repeated, tone slightly firmer.

As Peter moved past him, Neal walked further into the room, reaching the bed closer to the window and sank down to sit on the edge of it, feeling a small sense of relief on finally sitting. He confirmed the stiff, scratchiness of the comforter in doing so. How predictable. He longed to remove the socks on his feet, but the effort to get them on had been so tedious…

He also still felt filthy. He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the stubble.

Peter shut the door and turned back around, continuing to unbutton his dress shirt, revealing a white undershirt beneath it. "She called for a pizza," he said.

"I want to take a shower," Neal said abruptly. He started to stand again. The idea of undressing and redressing made him feel a pang of dread, knowing the effort would hurt, but the idea of the hot water completely overcompensated for that. He hadn't properly bathed since leaving New York, and he knew it would make a world of difference. A shower and keeping his mind occupied, specifically away from his own personal thoughts, was a current priority. "Then I want to see what you guys have so far on the case since I left," he added. He looked towards Peter.

Peter regarded him at first without speaking, pulling one arm through the sleeve of his shirt, then the other. "You can't get your shoulder wet," he told him, before tossing his shirt aside on the bed, covering the previously discarded tie.

Neal frowned in disappointment as he vaguely recalled being given some discharge instructions at the hospital while in his overall haze. That instruction about not getting wet he believed potentially might have been one of the details. "Was that a suggestion or necessary?" he asked carefully.

"I'm going to go with necessary," Peter responded. He sat down on the edge of his own bed.

Neal worked his jaw. "Fine." He continued to walk towards the bathroom. "I'll figure it out."

"Neal."

Neal took a couple more laborious steps and then sighed, looking again towards Peter and the warning tone. He felt a pang of… something. "I will," he said. He saw Peter's look and shook his head. "I'll tell you if I need help," he said, answering the unspoken request. Then he narrowed his eyes slightly suspiciously. "Besides, whatever happened to 'cowboy up'?"

Peter shook his head back in return. "Don't cowboy up too quick," was all he said.

Too quick, Neal repeated in his head, feeling slightly mixed signals. He turned away from Peter slowly and moved towards the bathroom resolutely.

"If you want to shave," Peter continued as he watched Neal retreat, "you can use whatever I've got in there."

Peter watched Neal disappear into the bathroom without another word, hearing the door close and the recognizable sound of the lock turn afterwards.

He frowned, and then pushed himself off the bed to stand and walk towards the TV. He needed some sort of background noise to clear his mind and to lighten up the tension in the room. He used the remote control to quickly turn the television on and flipped through the limited channels. He found a baseball game and left that on, tossing the remote back towards his bed.

With that he walked back over to the desk, pulling the chair out to take a seat. He stared at the case files in front of him.

He felt exhausted. The day had taken its toll, and the open case was still ahead of them. As though to indicate that fact, he flipped open the newest case file he had and stared at it blankly.

He was relieved to have Neal back on their side, but knew there was still a lot for him to contribute which made him uneasy. There were three days worth of potential evidence that needed to be explained in detail. In the hospital it was easy in the sense he could say all of this was 'for later.' Now it was later, and he struggled with deciding when was the right time to start to ask questions. Even Neal seemed a little surprised that there had been no questions yet. Peter only hoped that Neal realized it didn't mean he didn't care; he did care. Immensely. In fact, so much that he wanted to ensure Neal came first and not the story.

He sighed and told himself he would pursue questions tomorrow. Questions had to come before leaving Vermont, and he determined tomorrow would be that day.

Neal certainly seemed a bit more 'himself' than he had at the hospital, and he was sure the few hours of sleep in the afternoon had contributed to that. Peter felt slightly guilty for deciding on his behalf that a sedative was needed, especially after Neal had continually refused to take anything, against his best interest, but Peter didn't regret the decision. Still, while seeming more 'with it,' Neal was still being fairly quiet, and seemed either very deep in thought, distracted or still rather tired. He knew he had to be in pain.

Some of Neal's comments from the hospital resonated with him. The names of the artists. The comment that the syringe was meant for him. The mentioned of helicopters… What helicopters?

It was hard to imagine Neal in that basement. And the other details, like the chain that he'd had secured on his ankle, made Peter's stomach turn each time it crossed his mind. As ironic as it was, coming from someone who had ensured Neal was imprisoned at one point in his life, Peter hated to think of the Neal he knew now ever being confined that way. And to follow that, a shootout and an escape that took four miles on foot before he was able to make contact... Peter felt himself frowning, considering how much had happened simply that day. This wasn't a typical case nor what he had imagined the undercover involvement would entail.

As the TV changed to commercials during a break in the game, Peter glanced behind him towards the bathroom door, wondering in earnest what his CI was thinking about.

* * *

Neal wasn't sure how long he'd been in the tub when Peter gently knocked the second time.

Similar to the time in the basement, he had no concept of time. Eventually realizing this, he made a point to ask Peter later about whether his watch or phone had been recovered.

The first thing he'd done in the bathroom was finally stare at his reflection. It was unavoidable as he walked in, a large brightly lit mirror adorning half of the wall. He wasn't necessarily surprised at the appearance, and only imagined how much worse he'd looked before getting partially cleaned up at the hospital. He vaguely remembered Peter pulling a twig out of his hair.

He locked the door behind him and then took a step closer to the bathroom vanity, frowning further at the version of himself that frowned back. He acknowledged that he looked tired, with darker shadows under his eyes than usual. A few days worth of stubble shadowed his jaw line slightly, and he ran a hand across the roughness briefly. There were a few blotches of dark paint, and he noted a similar trend on his arms. The hospital had been able to wipe away the dirt, but paint was another story.

He slowly peeled up the t-shirt next, which was a painstaking ordeal. Whatever he'd been given before seemed to certainly be wearing off, and the movement to lift the shirt, pull his arms through, and tug it over his head was more arduous than he would have expected. But the pain kept him grounded in 'now'. Particularly hurting him was his shoulder; while he was glad it wasn't serious, it still hurt like hell.

Tossing the shirt to the counter of the vanity, he then stood motionless, viewing his bare torso in the mirror in silent observance. He could now understand why Peter had seemed so surprised back at the hospital when he'd first undressed. He pursed his lips and gingerly touched part of his ribcage that was particularly darkly bruised, swallowing gently. He tried to decide whether 'it looks worse than it is' was applicable here. It felt and looked bad.

Wallowing on his appearance was not a next step he would consider, and so he got to work attempting to remediate what he could. He took a folded facecloth from the shelf beside the vanity and reached to turn on the faucet, wetting it with warm water and soaping it up before beginning to scrub at the marks of paint on his face.

Next he shaved, using the supplies that Peter had referenced that sat on the edge of the countertop. They looked cheap, and the shaving cream bottle was travel size, almost like the hotel had provided it as they often did for traveling guests that had forgotten things. He didn't question it further.

Clean-shaven several minutes later, he felt slightly more like himself despite the aches he felt, particularly feeling the resistance from his battered feet, which had been bearing his weight less patiently over time. He viewed himself in the mirror once more, and despite the ruddier complexion due to the scrubbing it took to remove oil paint, he thought he looked almost normal.

Eyeing the tub, he felt a return of his determination to bathe. No shower? Fine. He could deal with no shower. He would play by that rule. There was a bathtub.

He moved over to the tub, reaching to the faucet to begin to run a stream of hot water before starting to undress, which took much longer than it typically would. When he got to his feet, he took a seat on the edge of the bathtub and tiringly began to pull off the stupid socks that he had just earlier put on in the parking lot. Once off, he threw them aside. He hesitated next at the bandages, but then began to unwrap them too.

He looked away after a brief glance at his feet, noting the small cuts and scrapes and the blisters that would need time to heal. He made a mental note to never run that distance in bare feet again.

Lowering himself into the tub itself required balance and patient, slow movement, but it was rewarding. He couldn't help but smile as the warm water engulfed him, and he forced himself to stop before sinking too low into the comfort. The point was to keep his shoulder dry after all.

It wasn't even the nicest tub. It was an average hotel, by no means fancy, but to Neal it suddenly felt like luxury. He thought back on the small bathroom he'd had access to over the last few days and in comparison this felt like the Ritz.

He washed himself slowly and delicately, and after a few minutes, resolved to simply rest there, closing his eyes.

It was there, surrounded by hot water, that he lost track of time. Deep in thoughts, he tried to clear his mind, to just relax, and not to again start to reiterate over the last three days, the morning, or anything else.

The first knock at the door startled him slightly, and he sat up and opened his eyes with a small gasp, watching the water ripple around him.

"Neal," came Peter's voice from behind the door. "Pizza's here."

Pizza, Neal echoed in his head. He didn't even care about pizza. He responded, "Okay," loudly enough for Peter to hear him, but then made no effort to move. Noticing the water had cooled down a bit, he stretched to turn himself to be in reach of the faucet, turning it slightly to replenish some hotter water.

Then it was a repeat of before. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

This time it was harder to deter the thoughts. It was a combination of things now. He worried about what Peter was thinking on the other side of the wall. If he had said something back at the hospital while under the influence of whatever they'd given him, then that might not bode well for him. He also thought back on the events of the morning, and of what could have been. Even if he had moved forward with his impulsive plan, it could have gone in many ways, as his recent dream had shown him.

He pushed himself to think about the case itself. They needed to search the house to see what records they could find. Now he had evidence of the forgeries, a first hand account, and there was the warehouse, and there was anything else they might have found while he was out of touch.

The case. He was going to help to solve it, and that would be his redeeming contribution to offset everything else he had done.

He was deep in thought on this when the second knock came. He reclaimed alertness in a less startled way this time, but sat up straight, stretching slightly despite the jolt of pain it caused. He stared down at his stomach for a moment. It was harder to see the bruises through the surface of the water. The water was now cool to the touch, and he shivered slightly.

"Neal," came the voice through the door again.

"Yeah," Neal called back. He was about to roll his eyes until the next statement.

"You okay? You've been in there an hour and a half."

Neal frowned. And hour and a half? Talk about the passage of time. Shaving, undressing, bathing… None of that was quick… But still, an hour and a half?

He hesitated before responding and then said, "Need a minute."

* * *

"Need a minute," was what Peter heard.

He frowned, standing outside the bathroom door, resisting trying the knob because he knew it was locked. He reminded himself yet again that Neal was an adult, and he didn't actually need to check on him, despite the strong instinct he felt to do so.

He looked at the door skeptically but walked away.

Diana had stopped by a few minutes before, dropping off the car keys, as well as two new manila folders of updates, and grabbing one slice of room temperature pizza before bidding him a good night and exiting for her own room.

Peter himself had eaten two slices over the last half hour, and eyed the remaining pizza, the closed box sitting on the table in the room with a strong aroma in the air. Peter disregarded the slight temptation to take another slice before returning to sit at the desk to look over the newer case files.

It was a good update. It captured the house. There were photos, descriptions, and details of what had been found that day, which included securing exhaustive record of transactions with names and particulars of what had been exchanged. That book of record was the Holy Grail, and what they had always hoped to find back at the office in New York but had come up empty handed.

It felt like a breakthrough. With this, and what Neal would supplement in a first hand account, and what they had in the warehouse… He was feeling pretty confident. They were going to nail these guys.

Eventually, Neal emerged from the bathroom, looking tired but slightly refreshed. He was in the same clothes as before, the t-shirt and pants Peter had been able to secure at the hospital with thanks to the nurses, but had clearly cleaned up. With wet hair, traces of paint were gone, and a clean-shaven face, he was looking a bit more like himself.

"Feel better?" Peter asked.

Neal nodded, approaching him. His eyes were focused on the case files on the table. There were six fat folders.

Peter refrained from making a comment about Neal finally being interested in paperwork, eyeing him carefully. "You want any pizza?" he asked.

"No," Neal answered slowly. He gestured to the files. "How much is new?"

"Since you last saw?" Peter asked. He shrugged. "Probably half. You should probably eat something, Neal." He looked down at Neal's bare feet. "And should you have taken those bandages off?"

"I need to catch-up," Neal responded, ignoring the question. He reached out and took three of the case folders before turning to walk towards the bed.

"Humor me," Peter said as he watched him gingerly walking across the carpet, "and have a slice of pizza, will you?"

"What happened to no eating while looking at files?" Neal replied.

"I believe that was no _drinking_ ," Peter answered dryly. "Stemming from when you returned the Jefferson case files looking like they were used at your coaster for the weekend."

Neal rolled his eyes slightly, and tossed the case files onto the table between the two beds. "Red wine can be an intellectual stimulant, Peter." He started to pull back the scratchy comforter of his bed, revealing more comfortable, softer bedding below. He pushed the comforter over to the other side of the bed.

"Said no one ever," Peter added. "When and what was the last time you ate?"

"Morning," Neal told him factually as he sat on the bed. "Sandwich." He winced as he pulled his legs up onto the bed.

Peter eyed him skeptically and then decided to drop the subject. If Neal was hungry, he would eat. "Speaking of damaging files," he noted instead, picking up one of the folders in front of him on the desk. He held it up for Neal to see and pointed at the blue smudge on the front of it. "I wonder whose fingerprint that is."

Neal regarded the folder in Peter's hand briefly. He was more focused on trying to get comfortable on the bed. He shifted himself up towards the headboard, scowling slightly at the aches from his ribs, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You know," he said as he slowly settled in, pushing his damaged feet under the end of the discarded comforter, as though to hide them from view. "That pen is the whole reason we're here right now."

"The pen?" Peter asked with a frown.

"Yes, the pen, Peter," Neal answered. He gazed at the baseball game on the television as he spoke, not interested in the game but wanting to have somewhere other than Peter's eyes to look at. "If the ink hadn't leaked," he explained, "then you never would've let me out of the van."

"True," Peter acknowledged with a shrug. "I honestly never should have let you out of the van anyway."

"But you did," Neal continued. "Which is how I got to see Messier." He paused, expecting some admonishing comment about that incident, but Peter didn't respond. "And since I saw him in person, that's why you wouldn't let me come with you to see him in custody." He rubbed a hand over his now smooth jaw. "And that's the reason he didn't know I was with the FBI. And _that's_ how I was able to go undercover." Now he looked back at Peter.

Peter was nodding. "All very true, Neal. When you put it that way."

"We're here because of a pen," Neal repeated.

"I can't disagree," Peter replied, though he frowned slightly. There was something in Neal's expression, something behind the blue eyes, but he couldn't place it. "I guess it goes to show you, Neal…" he said slowly. "How big the consequences of one action can be. Even if that one action is seemingly inconsequential."

"Butterfly effect," Neal mumbled, glancing over at the case files beside him. "What time is it?"

Peter glanced at his watch. "A little after eight."

Neal just nodded and picked up a case file, pulling it onto his lap and flipping it open. He glanced over the page, brow furrowing slightly. He flipped to the next page. "These are my notes," he said, tone a little surprised. "From the warehouse." He turned to the next page and then looked up at Peter questioningly.

"Yeah," Peter acknowledged. "Jones spent some time there," he explained. "We thought there might be some sort of clue of where you might be. Obviously there wasn't." He paused, watching Neal flip through the printed pages of his own writing with a frown. "You did a good job there, Neal."

"I wasn't done," he replied, not looking up.

"Maybe not," Peter answered. "But you documented a lot. And did it well. Even Jones said so."

Neal just grunted, continuing to turn through the pages.

"Though there was one question…" Peter cleared his throat. Neal looked distracted but he persisted, "There was one section of the room. Jones said you seemed to have classified or categorized everything. But there was one group of paintings kind of put to the side. Why?"

Neal slowly looked up, first with a slight look of surprise. Then it became masked, and his expression was more passive. "What do you mean?"

"Jones said that he couldn't see any particular theme with those paintings. That they really probably should have been divided and categorized with the others. But they weren't." He paused. "What was different about those?"

Neal shrugged. "I told you I wasn't done yet," he replied simply.

"So you didn't get to those yet?" Peter raised his eyebrows in question.

Neal looked back down at the file in front of him. "I technically got to them," he admitted after a short pause. "I just didn't put them with the others."

"Why not?" Peter asked.

"Why's it matter?" Neal responded with slight exasperation. He closed the case file forcefully and tossed it to the side, next to him on the bed. He took the next folder and dropped it on his lap but didn't yet open it.

Peter slowly rose from the desk, moving casually across the room to approach Neal. He lowered himself to sit on the edge of his own bed, mattress creaking slightly. He was now directly across from his CI, who, just a couple feet away, hadn't looked up again. He was staring at the unopened case folder, looking slightly frozen.

"What aren't you telling me?" Peter asked.

"There's nothing to tell," Neal replied, still keeping his gaze down.

"What was special about those paintings?" Peter insisted, curiosity getting to him. There was clearly something particular about them.

"They _aren't_ special," Neal responded stiffly. He now looked up, meeting Peter's eye with a determined stare. "And they aren't going to impact the case, Peter."

"Did you know the artist?" Peter hypothesized. "Are you trying to protect them?"

Neal's jaw stiffened. He pushed the case file off his lap and started to move his legs, shifting them towards the edge of the bed as though he was making movement to get up. "Maybe pizza is a good idea," he said distractedly.

Peter pushed himself up to his feet, closing the small gap between them to put out his arm to grasp Neal's good shoulder, holding him in place on the bed. "If you want pizza, I'll get it for you," he stated. "But something tells me you don't." He squeezed the shoulder gently, noticing Neal stiffen. "If you know the artist, that's fine, Neal. You can tell me."

Neal shook his head briefly. After a slight hesitation, he then said slowly, "You said you would go after the forgers after you got Messier."

Peter pressed his lips together briefly, nodding in acknowledgement. "I did…"

"Because they're the ones really proliferating the crime," Neal persisted. "Even moreso than the dealer, in a way. Because without them, there is no dealer."

"True," Peter responded. He removed his hand from Neal's shoulder and dropped his hand to pat at his thigh instead. "Move in."

Neal paused briefly but then acquiesced, shifting himself back over towards the center of the bed closer to his original position, wincing just briefly at the movement.

With the freed up space on the edge of the mattress, Peter sat down on the bed beside the younger man.

"Look at me," Peter requested.

Neal felt his heartbeat tick up a beat. He suddenly felt a little trapped. He was uncomfortable. They were literally hip to hip. He sighed and then slowly turned his head and met Peter's eye.

"If you know the artist, Neal, it's fine," Peter began. He noted Neal was somewhat expressionless. "But you can't just choose to _omit_ something from the investigation based on your own discretion. I didn't mean we were going to actively try to press charges against the forgers, if that's what you're worried about."

"It's not, Peter," Neal responded, shaking his head.

"Then what?" Peter responded, slightly perplexed. "Don't leave things out, Neal."

"I'm not leaving things out," Neal objected.

"You obviously are." Peter felt slightly frustrated at the vague responses he'd received and continued, "I've told you, Neal. Not sharing information is just as bad as –"

"Fine," Neal blurted out, almost bitterly. "Just stop." He shook his head again and then took a deep breath, letting it out with a sigh and dropping his eyes before stating, "It's me."

"What's you?" Peter frowned.

"The forger," Neal persisted. He looked back up at Peter. "It's me. Those were mine. I told you I worked for them. I guess they still have some of the works I did and–"

"Neal…" Peter exhaled, interjecting while closing his eyes briefly.

Neal's stomach turned. "It was before I met you," he objected. He quickly tried to determine whether an apology, or an explanation, or something else was in order. But before he could decide, he noticed Peter's reaction was not as he expected. Peter's chest was shaking gently, and his lips were slightly turned into a smile. He was… laughing? Neal now felt confused.

Peter reopened his eyes, smiling at Neal. "Really? That's it?"

Neal frowned, nodding slowly. "Yeah, but—"

"So good," Peter interrupted, chuckling. "Then we caught one of the forgers already. I'm further ahead than I thought."

"You're not mad?" Neal asked skeptically.

"No," Peter responded, humor subsiding as he gave Neal a look. "Neal… Like you said, this was years before I knew you. I'm not going to hold you accountable for every countless thing you did that I don't even know about. I mean, you're accountable but…" He shrugged.

"I thought you'd be mad," Neal admitted.

"Is that why you didn't say anything?" Peter asked, slightly exasperated. "You should have just told me, Neal. Instead of just hiding it. I really thought you were trying to hide something else."

"I didn't want to be implicated," Neal persisted, a little defensively. "You said you were going to target the forgers and –"

"And what?" Peter raised his eyebrows. "I'd go after you? Charge you?"

"I don't know," Neal permitted, now feeling a little frustrated. "I wasn't sure what you'd do."

"Here." Peter reached out and took Neal by the wrist on his uninjured side, raising his arm up. With his other hand he very gently smacked his hand, enacting the literal sense of a 'slap on the wrist' good-naturedly. He dropped the hand. "Consequence paid. Next time tell me."

Neal just stared at him, frowning. As Peter started to get up from the bed, he started to feel a bit opportunistic and said, "Maybe we can dispose of those paintings. Mine, I mean." He made the suggestion nonchalantly. He suddenly felt a small sense of relief that at least one secret was no longer out there and that Peter hadn't even really cared, replacing the previous uncertainty and guilt he'd felt.

"Maybe," Peter responded noncommittally.

Neal sighed and reached back to pick up the discarded folder from beside him on the bed. Conscience slightly cleared, it was time to get back to his primary focus, the case. He flipped open the folder, expecting to find another page of write-ups or something he'd already seen before. He wasn't expecting what he actually did find. "Oh shit," he said out loud before he could stop himself.

Peter turned back to him at the exclamation. "What's the matter?" He looked down at the case file on Neal's lap and then silently cursed himself. "Neal…"

Neal stared at the photo of his old friend. Adam. But it wasn't the depiction he expected. It was a crime scene phone, and it was clearly a deceased version of Adam, with what seemed to be a gunshot wound to the head. There was a blood splattering to the side of his head, and his body was lying prone on the ground, one arm crossed over his chest. What bothered Neal more was the open eyes. Adam stared ahead, brown eyes wide and vacuous. It was in such contrast to his memory of Adam, an effervescent, enthusiastic jokester who was a quick in so many ways. He was a fast talker and even faster at figuring out ways to get around the system. He was… alive.

Suddenly the image of his friend was blocked as Peter's hand came forward, attempting to take the folder away.

Neal pushed the interfering hand away. "Stop, Peter."

"Neal, come on," Peter began. "Don't look at that."

Neal stared into the lifeless image of his old friend. "I told you not to look into him, Peter."

"I know, Neal. But it was a lead. We had no choice."

"You should have left it alone." Neal picked up the picture and turned to the rest of the documents in the folder. "What happened? Did Jason do this?"

"It's a cold case, Neal," Peter responded, tone a bit hesitant. He resisted the urge to simply take the file away. "Connecticut. A handful of years ago. The rest of that file has a description of what they found. But it wasn't much, Neal. They never even had a suspect."

Neal didn't seem to register that. He scanned the pages, turning from one to the next, as though trying to figure out the underlying story. "His name was Matthew?"

"Well, your name was Neal," Peter said simply. "Not Will."

Neal frowned, turning one page after another. "I told you I didn't want to know, Peter." He flipped over another page. "He was 'disappeared' to me. And I was okay with that. Because he could have been anywhere. He could have been doing anything."

Peter paused, not knowing exactly how to respond to the statement. He watched Neal go through the file, fingers almost a bit frantic.

"It doesn't even have anything to do with the current case," Neal persisted. "Why is this even here?" He turned back to the photo again.

Peter paused. "I'm sorry, Neal," he said simply. The words felt hollow.

Neal looked up then, eyes shining and a bit accusing. "Sorry for what, Peter? For not listening to me? Or because he's dead?"

Peter didn't have a good response for that. Neal turned his head down again and went back to the file, continuing to go page by page as though it would contain some answer. Peter stood there for a moment watching him, before simply reaching out to place his hand briefly on Neal's head, noting the tousled hair was still damp. Neal didn't respond, but he didn't push the hand away either.

After a moment, Peter simply turned to walk away, deciding that trying to focus on the baseball game was likely a better tactic than attempting some sort of discussion in the current moment. He'd prefer Neal not be in the file, and decided that having allowed him to pick up the files without contest earlier had been a poor decision, but then again, Neal did have the right to read it if he chose. Neal would have to process it in his own way.

* * *

An hour later, Peter himself was in bed as well, sitting up against the headboard, watching local news on low volume with little interest, clad in boxers and undershirt. Occasionally he glanced over at Neal, who had continued to quietly go through case files in earnest, even after the discovery of his old friend's unfortunate fate. Peter didn't feel the exercise was healthy, and regretted allowing Neal to 'catch-up on the case' that evening at all, but there wasn't much he could do at that point, and he didn't interfere. Neal went through the files silently, clearly wrapped in his own thoughts, and Peter didn't interject or try to make conversation, despite being tempted to try.

Eventually, as predicted, Peter glanced over and found Neal had fallen asleep. His head was tipped down, chin against his chest, with his eyes closed and breathing falling up and down rhythmically.

Peter slowly slid his legs over the edge of his bed, rising from the mattress without any noise. He closed the few feet gap to Neal's bed and reached over careful, extracting with gentle movement the open case file that was sitting under Neal's slackened hands. He straightened the papers before closing the file and stacking it with the others that were on the bedside table. Taking them in his hand, he walked back over to the other side of the room to return them to the other remaining case files Neal had left behind.

On his walk back over to the bed, he paused to study Neal. Sleeping, he appeared much younger. His face was relaxed, lips slightly parted, and hair dark against the contrasting pale skin. He looked peaceful. Innocent, Peter thought to himself ironically.

He paused, and then debated waking him to coerce him into a more comfortable position. His current one, sitting upright, head hanging down, looked uncomfortable. But then again, he was resting, and that was really all that mattered. Peter was sure if he woke Neal, he'd get an insistent response that he needed to stay up and get his hands on the case files again. Peter preferred he simply slept, in any position.

So with that decision, he moved to turn off the television and return to bed himself, hoping to finally have a decent night's sleep for the first time in a while.

* * *

It then came in threes.

The first nightmare was a continuation of the one Neal had experienced in the hospital. He was back in the car, with the taste of freedom barely palatable, before being surrounded. Car chase, spike strips, burning rubber, sirens, helicopters, shouting. It surrounded him.

The image was so real. The previous dream came back to him in a rush, as though someone was fast-forwarding a film and then he was just there.

It was when the helicopters opened fire that he awoke.

He sat up straight, panting, alarmed. He felt sweaty. He took in the dark room, the silence, and slowed his breathing. He was okay. He was in the hotel. His ribcage was killing him.

He glanced around.

Nothing.

He could hear Peter's slow and steady breathing from the other bed, undisturbed by Neal's sudden awakening.

What time was it?

Breathing deeply, Neal slowly started to ease himself back down into the bed, to lay flatter on the mattress, wincing as he did so. The dream resonated with him but he tried to push it away.

He pulled the comforter over himself and closed his eyes again.

The second nightmare had him wake with a gasp.

This time it was dark, very dark, and he was waking from sleep. In the dream, he felt the stiff support of the cot beneath him, and as he stretched out, he felt the undeniable weight of the ankle bond and the chain attached. He was back in the basement.

He felt himself sitting up, trying to gain a better perspective. But the room was black.

He was back in darkness.

Then without warning, suddenly there was glaring light abruptly turned on.

As he tried to make sense of the room, he could see Jason in front of him, looming.

"What's next?" Jason asked ominously.

"What?" Neal asked.

"You finished the Malevich. What's next?"

"Jason, no."

"Yes. You finished it. The next—"

"I didn't," Neal objected. "I didn't. I didn't finish it. I know Remington is next, but I—"

Jason was rushing towards him now, gun suddenly in hand.

Neal startled awake, the image of the basement and of Jason piercing his mind before he found himself vividly recalling the image of Adam, with blood spilling out of his skull. Next he winced at the sudden movement to sit up once again.

The room was quiet. He could near nothing except his own gasping breath. He focused himself.

Peter was still evenly breathing.

He slowly pushed himself to get out of bed, slowly forcing his legs over to the floor. He felt very awake. He had no idea what time it was.

On his feet, he moved across the room to the table with the pizza box. He glanced once backwards, towards Peter's bed, noting no movement, before reaching to open the cardboard box and extract a cold slice. Feeling a mix of emotions, he bit into the piece of pizza, suddenly realizing his hunger as the taste of cheese, bread, and light sauce hit his tongue.

He felt unnerved by his two dreams. One of freedom, one of captivity. He considered this while chewing on the pizza, feeling completely conflicted.

Meanwhile in the room it was silent and still and that made him feel a bit unnerved.

He slowly finished the piece of pizza, willing himself to clear his mind, and then stood there, observing the darkened room.

Heavy thoughts, he shook his head. He had to remain focused. So with that he returned to bed and attempted sleep again.

The third dream was the most painful.

In this dream, he was back in the gas station. He had just lifted the wallet of the woman, thinking he was in the clear, when there was suddenly a shout for him to put his hands up.

Turning, in the dream he was suddenly surrounded, with police in the doorway, guns aimed, looking at him like he was a dangerous felon. In the middle of that display was Peter, also with his weapon drawn.

"Neal," came the voice in the dream, tone weighted down with everything he feared. Of hatred and accusation and direness and exasperation. That was the worst way Peter could say his name and his heart sank.

He felt sick.

He knew. It was over. With an action that took literally seconds, his entire life was over. Again, but this time with no possibility of redemption.

He woke in a panic as the police force closed in on him in the dream, heart pounding, a feeling of nausea overwhelming him. "No!" he found himself shouting.

He had a hard time distinguishing the real present and the dream. It all seemed so vivid.

He was breathing, hard and fast, and tried to calm it.

In out. In out. In. And. Out. In. And. Out.

Then came the voice and hand on his shoulder. "Neal," Peter stated. "Hey."

"Hey," was all Neal could respond. His throat felt dry. His heart was pounding in his chest, as though fighting with his ribcage. "I think I have something I need to tell you."

* * *

TBC


	36. Chapter 36

Neal's shout of "No!" into the otherwise silent room was the tipping point for Peter to give in to his reflex to get out of bed and react.

Peter's own sleep had been slightly restless that night, mind mulling over a variety of topics, mostly related to Neal and the case. This included revisiting his earlier decision that he would likely need to have Neal discuss the last seventy-two unaccounted for hours in more detail the next day. After the course of the evening—with Neal's silent, head down approach to investing his time in the case files— Peter wanted to be careful in the way he eased Neal back into the investigative side of the case versus simply having him recuperate and transition back from his undercover role. Peter was feeling particularly cautious about that, especially before he was even able to learn more about what had actually taken place during that role.

Peter did manage to eventually fall into a light sleep despite the heavy thoughts, concerns, and pending decisions that were nagging him. But as he and El always joked, it was a combination of his career and his personality that made him sleep 'with one eye open,' as she put it. Always on watch. So it wasn't surprising to him that Neal himself had a restless night, nor that he would notice.

The first time Neal inadvertently woke him, it was to gasping breaths as he sat up in a startled reaction to something, presumably a dream. The noise, even though muted, had Peter immediately open his eyes in detection of some disturbance. When he realized it was coming from Neal, Peter simply watched undetected at that point, eyes open in the darkened room just wide enough to get a view of the other bed but remaining quiet and still. He saw the shadowed silhouette of Neal, still panting a bit, though increasingly more softly as a few beats passed. After a moment of sitting up in bed quietly, Neal was then shifting himself towards the edge of the mattress, a sound of rustling blankets and softer breathing as he turned his legs out towards the floor in order to get out of bed.

As he watched him rise from the bed with stiff movement, Peter opened his mouth to speak but then resisted. He wanted to ask if he was okay, and to ask what he needed. He was still uncomfortable with Neal walking around on his feet in their current shape if it could be avoided. But as worried as he was, a voice in his head told him to wait. It went back to his earlier thought that evening when deciding to walk away from Neal and his insistence to look the case files. There were things Neal had to process for himself. If he intruded, there was a strong chance of Neal being defensive rather than the offered support being constructive.

So he silenced a sigh and instead of interfering, watched in the darkness with half closed eyes while Neal 'processed' things. His movement pointed to restlessness and unbridled anxiety, unmasked in his moment of thinking no one was watching. Pacing a bit. Eating a piece of pizza. Pacing a little bit more. Running his hands through his hair. Pacing again. And then after that silent display of disquiet, ultimately returning to bed slowly and silently. Peter skillfully closed his eyes further to remain unnoticed.

Once Neal was back in bed, and stayed there quietly for long enough, breathing turning deeper and more rhythmic, Peter found himself drifting back to sleep.

He didn't know how much time had passed before Neal was abruptly awake again, this time with the loud exclamation of "No!" accompanying the forceful upright movement to sit up.

That exclamation caused Peter to sit up himself. _No to what?_ he wondered in concern. Regardless of what 'it' was, this time he couldn't just sit back and let Neal attempt to self-soothe. This time the breathing was more erratic, and the outburst had been more distressed. So without thinking twice, Peter found himself swiftly sliding out of bed, closing the gap to Neal's side, and reaching out for his shoulder.

"Neal," he started, noting the spooked look on the younger man's face even in the darkness. "Hey."

"Hey," Neal responded, though it sounded more like a primitive echo than a calculated response, like he hadn't truly registered the statement. Neal turned his head slightly to view the hand on his shoulder. His face was shadowed, tilted down, but Peter could easily make out the furrowed brow and concerned expression as Neal's chest continued to rise up and down with deep breaths. Next Neal spoke. "I think I have something I need to tell you," he stated, with a tone somewhat devoid of emotion.

Peter paused. Something to tell? "About the case?" he asked. There was a lot they hadn't talked about. Seventy-two hours worth, give or take. He squeezed Neal's shoulder and found himself instinctually moving to sit on the edge of his bed, suddenly feeling no fatigue despite the absence of uninterrupted sleep so far that night and another abrupt awakening. "Did you have a bad dream, Neal?" he persisted, thinking back to Neal's response to that at the hospital. He'd replied abstractedly to the question then that he'd had an 'alternate reality.'

"No," Neal said slowly. He then retracted the response with, "I mean yes. But…" He paused. "It's not that." His breathing had slowed slightly, but the breaths were still deep, in and out. "It's not the dream." He stared ahead, into the darkness of the room, still appearing agitated. He raised a hand to rub at his forehead distractedly. "I think I ruined everything."

Peter frowned at those words, not understanding. Neal's tone had been somewhat emotionless, but now seemed laced with a sadness, or maybe it was the sound of regret. "Ruined what, Neal?" he asked curiously, keeping his voice calm. He watched the younger man shaking his head slowly, and started to hypothesize what this could be about. He hadn't _ruined_ anything. What the hell had Jason done to him? Peter felt the same angry surge of protectiveness come back to him. At the same time, he searched his mind, quickly scanning through the discussions with Neal over the past day since they'd reconnected in the morning. The majority of the words they'd exchanged hadn't carried much substance.

Suddenly, a comment Neal made at the hospital hastily came back to him, and Peter frowned at the recollection. " _I lost us three days,"_ Neal had said, intent to get back on the case regardless of his physical state. Peter went out on a limb that this could possibly be related. "You know you didn't lose us any time on the case, Neal," he asserted firmly. "You realize that, right?" He paused, but there was no response. So he continued, "Neal, think about it… You're the only reason we have any of the evidence we now do. What they got today is substantial. If we were back in New York, it would nearly be a cold case now."

"Like Adam," Neal said, a little distantly.

Damn that case file, Peter thought to himself. "Is this about Adam?" he asked carefully, stifling his exasperation and making a mental note to keep any additional details surrounding that aspect of the investigation out of Neal's reach. He briefly glanced over to the desk in the room where that specific folder was currently comingled with the others. "I know that picture must have been jarring, Neal, but—"

"No," Neal answered. "No, Peter. It's not that." His breathing was calm now, but he looked conflicted. Peter considered what to ask next, given Neal was currently offering very little to go on, despite the initial waking claim he had something to tell. _What would El do in this scenario?_ was Peter's next thought. El would offer to talk and would provide tea or something hot to drink, and would coax it out of him. And she'd do it with ease. There were limited options for that approach in this hotel room, but something told him tea wasn't going to be a solution anyway. And 'coaxing' for Peter usually entailed force, and he wasn't about to use that method tonight.

"Well, I can assure you that you haven't ruined anything, Neal," Peter persisted, going for logic and reason as a tactic instead.

Neal swallowed, shaking his head a bit then. He worked his jaw a bit before answering. "You can't say that, Peter. You don't know that. You don't know what I did."

Peter coached himself to find the right wording. "Neal, we all have dreams," he said slowly, slipping his hand to Neal's side, resting his palm against his hip gently. "And after the last three days… of course you would. We haven't talked about everything that happened. We've probably only skimmed the surface. I only haven't asked because I wasn't sure you wanted to yet. But if you want to talk about it… I'm all ears."

There was no response to that. Neal simply leaned back into the pillows behind him, reclining almost resignedly. His face contorted briefly at the movement before the mask returned.

"Neal," Peter persisted. "It's up to you. But clearly something woke you up."

Neal swallowed again, frowning now at the far wall in the dark room. He didn't speak at first, and Peter didn't push as a few beats passed. Then before he could try again, Neal responded abruptly with, "You're being too nice." He sounded almost resentful.

Too nice, Peter repeated in his head. What the hell did that even mean? "You don't want me to be nice?" he asked quizzically. He shifted the hand that was on Neal's hip a few inches to gently slide under the t-shirt towards his back, making contact with his hot skin. He could feel the dampness of sweat. "Why not?"

Neal shrugged, and started to toy with the edge of the comforter that was bunched up beside him, where he had pushed it off of himself upon wakening. The movement seemed agitated.

"Well, if I'm too nice, then it's only fair I point out that you're being far too quiet," Peter told him in response. "You said you had to tell me something. What is it?"

* * *

Neal, in the meantime, was battling his thoughts. His heartbeat had calmed and he no longer felt the panic he had felt upon waking from the series of vivid dreams, but the feeling was instead replaced with a surge of anxiety that he couldn't deter. He felt guilt and desolation, and in his mind he kept hearing Peter say his name in _that way_ with a gun pointed at him, flanked by police that were all focused on him. That tone, that intonation, all implied one thing: things were ruined from this point on. Game over.

After he'd blurted out that he needed to tell Peter something, he immediately felt a rush of dread and regret. Why would he say that? Why would he put himself in that sort of situation? He wasn't ready yet. You never act without preparation. Without rationale. What was he going to say now? Now Peter knew there was _something_ that was unsaid. It was the 'absence of truth' and all that jargon that was fodder for many past lectures. And this wasn't the absence of just anything…

He'd promised Peter that he wouldn't do it. They talked about temptation. They talked about being off anklet and being miles away on his own for the first time in years. Neal had been open about it, and had openly admitted to the likeliness of thinking about freedom. But then he'd easily committed that he wouldn't actually _act_ on it. He had promised. And Peter had looked at him with trust and acknowledgement, like he actually thought that it could all be true.

The conversation flooded back to him.

It had started out innocuously enough, with a simple question in Peter's office about when Neal had last been out of the city and how he felt about leaving now to go with Jason, questions that Neal immediately took to imply distrust.

" _Let me guess,"_ Neal had replied accusingly. _"You think I'm going to take off or something once I'm upstate with Jason? Is that where you're going with this?"_

Peter had insisted it was more about safety. It was more about them being able to have an ability to interfere if needed. He used the logic that they wouldn't even be considering taking him off anklet if that's what they thought could happen.

" _I'm not going to use the case as a reason to run, Peter. I wouldn't do that."_ Neal had said those exact words. He'd gone so far as to even tease about what a negative headline it would cause. FBI untethers their CI and loses him to the wind… _"I think of lots of things that I wouldn't actually do,"_ Neal had pointed out in full transparency _. "Doesn't everyone? I can't turn my mind off."_ And they both acknowledged that. Thoughts were thoughts. Implying thoughts meant action wasn't necessarily fair.

And after the back and forth on this, with what he thought was genuine honesty from himself, he remembered the discussion ending with Peter confirming he trusted him. _"I do,"_ Peter had confirmed. _"So long as you don't give me a reason not to."_

He'd now given him a reason not to. A big one.

Now he was struggling with what words to use, to not make this even worse. When he stated he'd never do anything to run during this case, he thought that was true. He broke his trust in _himself_ as well. He'd lied to both of them.

His mind started to rework the logic. Ultimately this wasn't a lie about running, because in the end he _hadn't_ run, even if he had started to. Thinking about it, sure; they had both known that would happen. Making an initial effort and having a moment of intent to run? Did that make his original promise a lie if he hadn't actually followed through?

 _Stop it_ , Neal, he told himself. Peter won't think about it that way. He knew that. Thinking about it that way, rationalizing it that way, would only make it worse because that was the exact type of logic manipulation that always made Peter furious.

Besides, this wasn't just running. There were other crimes committed.

So he had to think, and think good, before admitting to this. _If_ admitting to this. It was weighing him down as a secret, but the fear of releasing it was growing. Because this time, the response wouldn't just be a slap on the wrist. This wasn't a lapse in judgment from years ago, from before Peter had taught him to have a conscious and how to think through consequences. This was this morning. Just hours ago. When he had broken the law.

And that made him genuinely afraid. Peter had used the threat of locking him up, and sometimes seemed to mean it, for much less serious transgressions and waywardness. And part of him wondered if being locked up was actually better than dealing with Peter himself once he found out.

Peter had been talking to him now, but he was barely listening. His racing thoughts were volumes louder than Peter. But the man was sitting close to him, had offered a steady hand of contact; he was talking calmly, was asking how he was, tone hinting at obvious concern, and wasn't even being forceful to get answers.

It made Neal feel worse, because he really didn't deserve that treatment. Peter had no idea what he had done. If had any idea, composure would go out the door.

So he didn't know how to respond, and certainly did not want to tell him any of this now, despite his imprudent statement earlier. He couldn't, not before he figured out how, so he frowned instead, heart heavy with guilt, and then simply told him with a hint of contriteness, "You're being too nice."

Peter seemed a little taken aback by that, but then simply responded, "You don't want me to be nice?" in a way that sounded a bit puzzled. "Why not?"

Neal shrugged, not responding as he felt Peter's hand slip to his bare skin. He shivered slightly at the human touch, resisting the instinct he felt to lean closer to the man. He knew Peter would allow it. He wanted that and to be told it would all be alright. But to do that wouldn't be genuine, and he didn't deserve it. So he resisted, and started to fidget with the edge of the comforter beside him instead.

"Well, if I'm too nice, then it's only fair I point out that you're being far too quiet," Peter told him next. "You said you had to tell me something. What is it?"

Neal couldn't decide on what to say, so he went with a thought that had been nagging at him since he made the statement earlier about the pen being the initial domino in this whole chain of events. "You should have taken me off the case," he said resolutely. He could feel Peter's hand stiffen slightly at that comment. Neal continued, "You wanted to, and you were right. You should've."

"Neal, what are you talking about? Didn't you hear what I said before? You're the whole reason we even have closure in sight on this case," Peter replied slowly. "Besides, if I'd taken you off the case, something tells me you would've involved yourself anyway, and then we'd be in an entirely different situation."

Neal considered that, frowning. Peter was right. Had Peter told him he was off the case, he likely would have done anything to get back on it, even if it meant implicating himself in a way that would force Peter's hand to involve him, later consequences be damed. The whole reason he waited so long to admit he knew Jason was because he didn't want anything to risk his involvement in the case. "You don't know that," he objected anyway. "If I wasn't on this case, and if I was in New York, then all of this could have been avoided." He paused. "None of this would have happened.

"Neal…" Peter's voice came with a sigh. "I'm sorry you got hurt. You have no idea how sorry I am. I'm going to make sure that they—"

"No, Peter. No. It's not about that," Neal interjected. He felt further guilt at Peter's misinterpretation of his statement .He tugged forcefully at the comforter next to him, feeling the need to display the emotion he felt somewhere as he kept his face expressionless. "I don't really care about that."

"Well, I do," Peter answered, a little stiffly. "I didn't agree to your deal with us to put you in harm's way, Neal. You better know that."

Neal wondered if the 'deal' Peter referred to meant his overall arrangement with the Bureau, certainly soon to be short-lived, or this undercover assignment. "I put myself in harm's way," he objected, assuming it to be a valid response regardless of which one it was. Wasn't that always the case? Peter constantly berated him for putting himself in dangerous positions. But this wasn't about that.

"This time, no, you didn't." Peter remained adamant. "You're supposed to offer your intellect, Neal. Not be in the line of fire."

"Well, it's not about that anyway," Neal insisted. He ached and hurt, but why shouldn't he after all this. He deserved it.

"Then what?" Peter asked, slightly exasperated. "What did you want to tell me?"

Neal paused, feeling his heart start to speed up again. He felt Peter's fingers move slightly against his skin. Moving away.

Peter withdrew his hand, running both of his palms over his own face now, tiredly. "Neal, maybe you should go to sleep. What do you think? It's the middle of the night, and –"

Neal felt a hint of cold at the absence of Peter's touch and took a deep breath. "I lied." There. He said it. Coldness soon permeated his entire body.

Peter didn't seem to react much as he uncovered his face, hands dropping to his lap, expression unconcerned. In fact it moreso conveyed tired exasperation. "You've been undercover, Neal… And you had to maintain your alias," Peter said matter-of-factly. "You know you can lie while undercover."

"No. Not to you," Neal responded.

An uncomfortable brief silence passed between them.

"Me?" Peter filled the gap, and now seemed confounded. "What did you lie about to me?" His tone was surprised.

Neal now froze, a little baffled himself as to why he'd admitted that initial overarching detail so abruptly. One part of his mind was not communicating to the other. He had just gone through the internal deliberations and decided telling Peter this now _wasn't_ a good idea. Now once again he wasn't sure what to say as a follow-up. Despite knowing he shouldn't think of ways to manipulate the optics what he'd done, he was still caught up in the logic behind it. Was the actual lie the conversation from the office that day about not running? Was it the events of this morning? Was it not admitting to it yet? Was it all of it?

"Hey," Peter said, tone still gentle. "Neal. What'd you supposedly lie to me about?"

Supposedly. Neal parted his lips slightly and then closed them again, remaining uncharacteristically speechless. He prayed silently that Peter wouldn't ask him to look at him. Eye contact would surely do him in. Peter was within inches of him, and if he was going to tell him anything about that morning, he wanted to make sure he was no where within arm's reach. This was the danger zone. And he had to have a better story about what had happened, and what he'd been thinking. Now was _not_ the time.

"Neal…" Peter persisted, tone inquisitive but growing warning at the same time. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure," Neal replied, voice slightly strained. If Peter had just taken him off the case, then they wouldn't be here, and he wouldn't be in this position. Now he had ruined everything, and if he told Peter, then it was over. The longer he waited, the longer he could postpone that ending. How many counts of criminal activity was it anyway? Concealed firearm, petty theft, burglary, hotwiring a vehicle. They'd probably throw in some endangerment charges, and there had been kids involved. He counted slowly through the offenses. "Five," he mumbled slowly under his breath, barely audible. He wondered if he would've been better off just running, despite his dreams alluding to otherwise.

* * *

Peter felt a mix of exasperation, frustration, and sympathy as he tried to lure any sort of comprehensive response from Neal. The younger man still looked conflicted, and clearly something was bothering him, or was at least weighing heavily on his mind. His expression was somewhat muted, but the tightness of his jaw and the furrowed brow gave him away. Peter wasn't sure if it was the dreams or something else. It had been a long seventy-two hours, and just thinking back to the morning felt like he was trying to recall details from a week ago. He didn't expect Neal to be as articulate and talkative as usual, but had been hopeful when he'd admitted to having something to tell that he would actually open up.

And now this convoluted statement of having lied. What was that? Being undercover was just that – a fabrication. Peter had no idea how Neal could have possibly lied to him while he wasn't even able to make contact with him. And since making contact, everything he'd said was undeniably factual other than trying to persuade them he wasn't in as much pain as he was.

When Neal responded that he now, "wasn't sure," Peter felt conflicted himself. Neal had seemed more himself that evening, but this talk was almost reminding him of being back at the hospital. Perhaps it was just fatigue. It was dark and it was late. Then he noticed it appeared Neal was going to say something else. His mouth moved, but there was no sound. It almost looked like he was counting.

"What?" Peter asked with slight exasperation. Then without waiting for a real response, he made an executive decision and just shook his head. "Okay, Neal, we're not doing this tonight, okay?" He rubbed at his own face again. "If you don't want to finish this discussion, then we'll pick it up tomorrow. You're tired. I'm tired. You just had a bad dream. We don't have to talk about it unless you want to. I think all signs are pointing to you needing sleep."

Neal looked unconvinced at that, frown lines deep, lips pressed together tightly, as though not willing himself to say another word. But then he spoke earnestly, replying softly, "I don't know if I can sleep. I've had three bad dreams so far."

Looking at him, Peter felt his heart clench at the honest admission, which was paired with a somewhat lost look on the younger man's face. Three? He'd been awakened by two of them. Neal must have been quieter during the first. He suddenly regretted not asking the hospital to give them something for him to take to sleep. That had been an unfortunate oversight. He tried to think of the right response. What was the right next step.

"Hey," Peter finally said. Then he lowered his voice slightly, just above a whisper. "You want to watch some TV with me?"

Neal looked uncertain at that at first, frown deepening briefly, before his brow unfurrowed and he simply nodded. "Yes."

Peter pushed himself off the bed to go retrieve the remote controller.

TV it was… At – he glanced at his watch – three o'clock in the morning.

* * *

Diana yawned tiredly as she knocked on the hotel room door the next morning, her arm weighed down slightly by the large plastic bag looped over her arm. A cardboard cup-holder tray was in her other hand, balancing three coffees.

The sound of the door opening followed a long moment after, just as she was considering knocking again. The jangling sound of the chain being displaced from within made her lower her fist from the initiation of a knock, and was followed by the door easing open slowly.

"Morning," Neal greeted with a smile from inside the room.

"Morning," she responded as she gave him a brief once over, profiling him slightly. The smile he greeted with was clearly faked. While he wore the same clothes as the day before, and he did actually look quite cleaned up, the attire itself and the tousled somewhat unruly hair, implied he wasn't quite himself yet. He still looked a bit pale and not as animated as usual, and as he moved away from the door she noted his gait was a bit stiffer and slower than usual. "You look like you're feeling better," she commented regardless.

"Peachy," Neal answered, sinking down to sit on the edge of the far bed, attention turning back to the television, where it looked like a local newscast was airing.

"That's good," Diana responded as she followed his gaze to the screen. His interest in local news seemed unlike him, but she ignored it. She moved into the room, letting the door close behind her. "I have a few things for you… Where's the boss?"

Neal nodded his head towards the bathroom. "He'll be out in a minute." At the mention of something for him, his attention diverted temporarily from the newscast and back to her. "What do you have? Coffee?" he observed the items she held. "Thanks."

Diana nodded, moving towards the desk to set down the cardboard cup-holder, pushing the case files out of the way to do so. "Coffee, yes. But today I'm even more than a caterer."

Neal gave her a bright smile. "You're always more than a caterer to me, Diana."

"Real cute," she retorted dryly. She took a couple steps toward him, offering the plastic bag that she slid off her arm. "I was told to deliver this to you."

"It's Christmas already?" Neal joked as he accepted it. Despite the lighthearted response, he peered in the bag somewhat warily.

She at the same time watched him wearily.

Neal withdrew a pair of sneakers first, holding them in front of himself in scrutiny.

She couldn't gauge his reaction and said, "Those better be yours."

"They are, thank you," Neal confirmed, voice a bit softer. "I didn't know if I'd get them back, and I was wondering how I was going to walk out of here." Next he pulled out the jacket he'd been wearing when he arrived at the house. He frowned at it and then put it aside. The only other things left in the bag were the opened package of socks from the car, and then the watch and the cell phone that had been recovered from the post office. Neal was extracting these items from the bag just as Peter was emerging from the bathroom, wiping his damp hands on the front of his slacks.

"Hey, Diana," Peter greeted. "You were pretty quick to get over there and back."

"It's not far." She shrugged. "Coffee?" She nodded to the cups on the desk.

"I don't want this. This isn't mine," Neal asserted as he held up the watch. He examined it briefly, flipping it over in his hand, before then turning his head and with a smooth flick of his wrist, tossing it up in the air towards Peter. "It's his."

Peter captured the watch with a grunt as it flew towards him through the air, initially a little caught off-guard by the unexpected flying object but reacting in reflex. He gripped it in his hand as he lowered his arm and shot Neal an admonishing look. "You mean it's the Bureau's," he corrected stiffly. "So don't play with it."

"You're the Bureau…" Neal muttered in response distractedly. He had turned his attention to his phone, flipping it open, and was holding down the power button uneventfully. The screen remained dark. He tried again to no avail, frowning at the device. "It's dead."

"You can charge it at the precinct," Peter responded. He walked over to the desk, passing Diana, and dropped the watch gently on top of the case files. Next he reached for one of the coffees. "Thank you, Diana. As always."

"No problem," she answered, observing the older man. He looked just as tired as she had noted that morning when she had stopped by to once again borrow the car keys while Neal had still been sleeping. She wondered now, as she had then but not asked, how their night had really been. She was getting the sense that despite the somewhat early evening, it hadn't been too restful. She kept her curiosity to herself and instead reached into her pocket to extract the car keys, offering them back. Peter took them without comment, and she added slowly, "I've also got some other news, Boss."

"What's that?" Peter asked, after taking a long sip of the hot liquid.

"That's it?" Neal asked at the same time, discarding the plastic bag beside him on the bed. "There was nothing else?"

Diana frowned at him. "That's it?" she echoed. "What else were you expecting? I thought you'd be glad to have the shoes."

"I am. But I also had a backpack," Neal responded, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck and frowning at her. "How'd they find this and not the backpack?"

"It might be at the house then," she said slowly with a shrug. "They turned the place upside down, Neal. Your shoes and jacket were in the kitchen, kind of out of place, and given they were a different size than Messier or Jason, I made an assumption. A backpack I don't recall seeing. Why, what's in it?"

Neal shrugged. "Clothes," he said. He then forlornly added, "And lockpicks."

"Lockpicks," Peter echoed, a little incredulously. "Jesus," he muttered. He regarded Neal for a moment and then raised his eyebrows at Diana. "What's the other news?"

Diana turned her eyes back towards her boss. "It's Jason…" she said as she walked over to the desk and took her own coffee.

Peter's eyes went back towards Neal briefly, but found he was now focused back on the television.

Neal heard Jason's name spoken by Diana, but couldn't move his eyes from the television screen, his hands toying with his lifeless cell phone restlessly. He listened to their conversation, but found himself tied visually to the output of the broadcast.

He wouldn't normally care about a small town's local news. In fact, when he first woke that morning, finding Peter already up and moving about the room with the television on, already set to this channel, he barely thought twice. His initial focus upon awakening, other than the pain of barely day-old injuries, was the previous night. He'd had no further dreams that night—good, bad, or otherwise – which was mostly thanks to Peter. But he was uneasily anticipating the follow-up, where Peter would surely want to continue the conversation and fill in the unanswered questions. And that had filled him with a quiet dread.

But Peter hadn't done that, nor had he even alluded to the night yet, other than asking him if he slept okay once he noticed he was awake. Neal had simply nodded and there was no follow-up question. Peter seemed otherwise more occupied with getting ready.

Neal couldn't decide if that was something to feel respite over, or simply a foreboding signal for something yet to come. Peter rarely left questions unanswered, and he absolutely didn't expect him to start now.

It was while he was troubling over this, stomach anxiously churning, that he found himself briefly watching the news as he crawled uncomfortably out of the bed. His initial glance was fleeting until he caught the headline going into the commercial.

" _And coming up, we'll cover a rising trend in the area,"_ came the newscaster's voice, a petite woman sitting behind a desk on the screen, her voice carrying the typical intonation of someone telling the news. _"Car theft, notably on the rise in the region over the last two months, including a surprising incident that occurred in our own backyard here in Burlington yesterday. We'll report on this, and what you need to know to make sure you're not a victim. Coming up next."_

The television scene had then flashed to a commercial for paper towels, but Neal froze and felt like he had just been punched in the gut.

And since that moment, he'd been locked on the news, waiting for that update. Waiting to hear about the incident and what details they had. Would it be an older, dark blue Honda Civic? Would they have any sort of clues? Any surveillance? He felt a heightened sense of anticipation that he couldn't stop. It mixed with the guilt and trepidation already there like an undesirable stew. Just like he couldn't tear his eyes from the television.

Even now when they were discussing the case. The case he wanted to close. So he split his attention.

"What about Jason?" Peter was asking, with what sounded like slight uneasiness.

"It's sounding like he wants a deal," Diana started slowly.

"A deal…" Peter repeated, sound a little surprised. His tone then grew a little bitter. "Is he out of his mind?"

"He's willing to provide any information we need," Diana continued. "He's willing to turn on Messier."

Peter let out an audible sigh. Neal glanced over at him briefly, and watching Peter's hands typically go to his hips, then turned back to the TV.

"Did he say anything that's of any use besides that?" Peter asked.

"Not yet."

Neal couldn't blink. The commercials had ended and the newscaster was back. But the current story was touching upon a fire at an old commercial building. No sign of the update that had been promised. He sighed himself.

He didn't know what to expect. If it was the Honda Civic, that was one thing. It then depended on what they knew. He hadn't been at full capacity then. He could have messed up. There had been no one around, that he was sure of, but what about security cameras? He hadn't adequately surveyed the surrounding houses close enough to be certain of that. So what if it was on camera? The whole thing? Certainly they'd have a sketch of him. And he had been nothing short of unique looking that morning.

Fingerprints, he suddenly thought.

Had he wiped down the steering wheel? The door handle?

His mind was suddenly blank of that part. He had no recollection.

And if they had all that and the sketch that would undeniably look like him, then it was really all over and completely out of his control as to when. Worse, if Peter found this out from the news before he ever even had a chance to explain, then he was really in for it.

Now the news was covering a new fast food restaurant that had opened.

His throat suddenly felt dry, and he swallowed.

And when they did finally provide this update on the news, was he going to find out the identity of the owner of the car? He recoiled at that thought. He already had a face to the victims from the gas station. He'd prefer the owner of the car stay inanimate and anonymous. He didn't want details. What if it was someone elderly or someone who depended on their car? What if he'd caused someone to miss something?

His mind raced through these thoughts as the news moved onto a car accident that had shut down one of the town's main roads for an hour despite no injuries.

 _Come on_ , he thought to himself impatiently

He startled just slightly as a hand suddenly came under his jaw, two fingers forcefully tilting his chin up to raise his viewpoint. Peter.

"What's going on in that head of yours?" Peter asked, tone more skeptical than annoyed. He kept the hand in place for a moment. "Didn't you hear me?"

Neal looked up at him for a moment, meeting his eye and said, "Sorry," as earnestly as he could before his eyes then flitted back to the TV. Where was the update?

"You tired?" Peter asked.

Neal nodded. Tired was always a good excuse. Whenever El said 'he's tired, Peter; leave him alone' it _always_ worked.

"We're leaving for the local field office now, Neal," Peter told him matter-of-factly, tapping his cheek softly before dropping his hand to his side. "Since you obviously didn't hear it the first time. Do you think your feet will be okay with just socks and sneakers?"

"Yes, it's fine," Neal replied as he watched another newscaster on screen now, talking about the weather. He glanced back at the room and noticed Diana had left. Without waiting to be told directly, he reached for a pair of socks from the bag. He started to shift himself back a bit onto the bed while still watching the television, wincing at the movement as his ribs painfully objected to any shifting of any kind. But this way he'd be able to address socks and sneakers by pulling up a leg at time with a bent knee, versus leaning down to reach his feet, which he knew would be excruciating.

"You think you want to talk to them today about what happened at the house?" Peter asked. "I know it's soon, Neal, and you don't have to, but—"

"Yeah, it's fine," Neal responded distractedly. The house. He could talk about the house with no problem. That once nightmare, which still made him feel sick, had been temporarily downgraded for more pressing problems.

He'd just gotten one sock on, and was pulling on his shoe slowly, realizing just from what he felt in doing so that walking wasn't going to be that pleasant, when he glanced up in time to see the television screen turn dark.

"Hey," Neal protested in concern as he immediately turned his head, viewing Peter a few feet behind him at the head of the beds, putting down the remote control on the table between the mattresses without any sense of the implication of what he had just done.

"Hey what?" Peter responded, again a look of puzzlement.

Regretting his voiced objection, Neal turned again to view the blank screen of the television and while he was deeply troubled by it, anxiety piquing, he also knew he had to play it cool. "Do you think we can go home today?" He forced out the first question he could fabricate to recover. He couldn't ask for Peter to turn the television back on despite yearning to. He wouldn't have a good reason why. But staring at the blank screen, he couldn't help but wonder if on air _right now_ was the Honda Civic. It filled him with frustration and fear.

Peter paused for a moment, and then said, "Maybe, Neal. I hope so. But we can't if you don't hurry up."

Neal frowned, tying the first sneaker distractedly, and dropping that leg down. He pulled up the second and repeated the motions, trying to move faster this time.

Peter was collecting the case files from the desk, putting the watch aside to sit on the surface of the desk on its own. He tucked the files under his arm, holding his coffee in hand, and watched Neal a little apprehensively as he finished tying his second shoe and then pushed himself up from the bed. It was clear Neal was still very much distracted by something. Something he would have preferred not to rekindle before heading into the bureau filed office unless it was necessary.

Neal cast another look at the TV as he gingerly tested his shoes, brow furrowed, shifting his weight a little. Then he paused.

"What's the matter?" Peter asked him.

Neal looked up, meeting his handler's eye and raising his eyebrows. "What?" Then he shook his head. "Nothing."

"Something's on your mind… Is it last night?" Peter persisted. "You want to talk about it now?"

Neal swallowed, lowering his gaze to stare at his feet. "No." He continued shaking his head. Peter offering 'now' implied a definite alternative of 'later' that Neal dreaded, though he knew it was inevitable, and necessary if he was going to tell Peter before the news or other authorities did. "No, it's not that. It's…" He thought hard. "It's the first time I've had shoes since four days ago, Peter." Factual, harmless, safe. He pushed himself to get it together. To help do so, he walked towards the desk and reached past Peter for the coffee that was left for him. "It's weird."

"Well… You need to stay off your feet when you can."

"I'm fine. I'm ready to go."

"You sure?" Peter asked. "And you're ready to talk about the last few days?"

Most of it, Neal thought as he nodded. The house. He flashed Peter a tight smile. "Might as well before I forget the details, right?"

He was pretty sure he wasn't going to forget the details even if he wanted to.

"Alright," Peter gave him a dubious look but nodded. "Then let's go." He walked towards the door. With his back to Neal as he walked, he added, "And you can drop the fake smile, Neal. You don't have to talk right now, but don't try to pull an act either."

Neal's smile dropped, replaced with a brooding stare at the dark television screen. He hesitated just briefly before forcing himself to follow Peter, the unknown of the rest of the day weighing on his conscious with a heaviness that tried to crush him.


	37. Chapter 37

Thank you for everyone still following, especially those who have left constructive comments. Really appreciate it. Apologies in advance for some editing needed in this chapter... Wanted to get it up but I think I need to do another read through!

* * *

For the first time while in Vermont, upon entering the Burlington field office Peter finally did not feel a sense of heightened alert or anxiety. Every other time he'd walked into the building, it had been a rushed entrance with one thing on his mind: finding Neal. Now Neal was entering with them, which was an entirely different feeling. There was still a lot ahead of them, like finally closing down the case and figuring out what had happened over the past few days within that house, but at least the most important part of his mission out-of-state was accomplished.

It didn't necessarily feel like an accomplishment. A relief, yes. Neal, while not uninjured, was at least safe. What happened from here on out was at least within their collective control, more or less. There were no more speculations on locations and well-being, at least physical.

"He's with us," Peter told the now-familiar security guards as he gestured at Neal upon their arrival. He and Diana meanwhile flashed their badges as they walked through the main entrance, a doorway to which they were now well accustomed. The guards just nodded back politely and said nothing else as they passed.

"Hey, Boss. Forgot to mention… I told Val we'd be coming in," Diana stated as they continued walking. She kept in stride with him, walking at his side. "So she's expecting us around now."

"Oh good. Thanks for thinking of that," Peter answered. He shifted his grip on the case folders tucked under his arm. At least Diana had been levelheaded and considerate this trip. He was thankful for that and hoped, while unspoken, that she realized it as well. It hadn't been an easy trip, but having her as a partner had made it more manageable.

Their pace was brisk, and he glanced behind them briefly to make sure Neal was keeping up. He was, trailing just a few feet behind with his coffee cup still in hand, seemingly taking in the details of the building as they passed through, as his eyes were anywhere but straight ahead. He was also entirely too quiet, in Peter's opinion; just as he had been on the ride over. In fact, he'd barely said a word in the car. "You good, Neal?" he asked. He slowed his pace just slightly so Neal would catch up, and in turn Diana did the same.

"Yeah," Neal answered coolly, as he closed the gap and reached Peter's other side. "Who's Val?"

"Agent Val Clarke," Peter responded as he continued walking, surprised but also a little reassured that Neal had actually been listening and not in his own thoughts a million miles away like he'd been at the hotel. Maybe he just needed to get back into a routine… "She's been our main point of contact since we've been here."

Peter waited for a follow-up question, or questions, but Neal didn't ask anything further, simply nodding at the vague explanation and resuming his quietness.

They reached the main bullpen of the office, walking across the floor in the direction of Agent Clarke's office. There were a few agents scattered across the floor, but it seemed relatively quiet so far that morning.

Peter approached Val's door, now walking ahead of Diana and Neal. Both dropped behind and let him approach alone without any formal direction to do so. He viewed Val at her desk as he approached the open doorway; she appeared to be reviewing something on her computer screen with a focused expression. Pausing for just a moment, he rapped his knuckles against the doorway frame to indicate his presence.

She looked up at the noise and gave a small smile as she registered him. "Agent Burke. Good morning… Yesterday was quite the day; I'm sure you'd agree."

"It definitely was," Peter acknowledged, giving her a tight smile back. "Just glad we've made a lot of progress on getting to the end of this case. Or almost to the end, I should say."

Val nodded. "And we're glad you've got your CI back in one piece, Peter," she continued. "Really, it's good to have an outcome like that. After three days you really never know."

Peter cleared his throat, nodding while dismissing that thought. Alternative outcomes and 'you never know' was not something he wanted to reflect on. "Speaking of Neal," he responded slowly, "I've got him here as well." He glanced behind him, observing Neal and Diana exchanging some words casually about ten feet away. He noted Neal was tiredly leaning his weight back against an empty desk. He eyed him for a minute and then turned his attention back to Val. "Thought we could try to provide a statement to cover what took place the last few days while he was at the house… Would be good to get it on record as we size up the charges on these guys. Could help with the questioning too."

Val nodded. "Good. I was hoping you'd say that." She pushed back her chair, rising from it and moving around the desk to approach him. "We're ready for it, and the sooner we do that, the better. There's some updates from yesterday as well that we should discuss. Jason has some interesting proposals…"

"Diana alluded to that," Peter responded, a little dryly. "I'll listen to the recording you have from yesterday, whenever I can get a copy. Do you also mind sending Clinton whatever you have?"

"Not a problem." Val paused and then added, "It's only our case temporarily after all." She smiled and the tone was sarcastic, but Peter could sense a slight note of bitterness as well. It wasn't the first time he'd felt a slight unspoken conflict from a local field office. Vermont wasn't unique to bristling at outsider agendas during a case than trespassed into local territories.

Damn right, Peter thought to himself, not reacting to her tone. They may temporarily be in their Vermont jurisdiction, but this was a White Collar case from beginning to end. Cyber had happily handed the reigns over and there was no going back or exchanging hands now. He ignored the politics and focused on the tasks ahead. "Is there a room here that we could use?"

She paused and looked at him quizzically. "A room you could use?" she repeated.

He felt a little puzzled by her reaction. "A conference room, or something. I mean, I'd rather Neal have somewhere quiet to record a statement." He felt it was a relatively standard request.

"Record…" she echoed. "Sorry, I think there's some confusion," she began slowly, shaking her head slightly. "But when you said he was going to give his account of the last few days, I thought we were on the same page."

"Meaning?" Peter raised his eyebrows.

"Meaning," she repeated patiently though with a hint of weariness, "that the account would be provided in a manner consistent with the others."

"The others…"

"Agents Riley and Thomas conducted the interviews with the other suspects yesterday. They're also fully up to speed on the inventory that was taken at the house." She paused. "In order to maintain consistency and obtain an impartial record, then I suggest any other parts of this case interrogation should also be—"

"Wait a minute."

"Yes?" She raised her eyebrows.

"Agent Clarke…" Peter interjected. Before continuing, he caught himself and paused. He took a moment to step further into her office. He glanced behind himself once again, taking in the distance of Diana and Neal briefly before gently closing the door behind himself, ensuring the discussion was private. "Before we continue, let's just make sure we get a few things straight."

Val looked at him expectantly. "Get a few things straight in what way, Agent Burke?"

"To start," Peter began, attempting to refrain from the aggravation he felt in his tone, "I want to remind you that Neal is _not_ a suspect. He is a part of this case just like any one of us. And in that vein, this isn't an interrogation. It's not an interview. It's not any of the above. It's a statement. Nothing more, nothing less."

"A statement."

"That's right, Val. And if you treat it any other way, we're not proceeding right now."

"I respect that he's your CI, Peter," she responded. "Honestly, I do. And I know he's had a strenuous last few days. But in all due respect, I find in these situations it's better to have these … discussions... facilitated by someone a bit less partial. They know what's in the house, so they know what to ask in case something isn't mentioned… You're welcome to watch but in terms of participation—"

"He just needs to give a statement on the record," Peter persisted stiffly. "There's nothing to be partial about or otherwise. None of us were actually there."

"Given his position as a CI, I'm sure he's not unfamiliar with some questioning, Peter…"

"That's not relevant," Peter responded rigidly. "Not today."

She sighed. "Agents Riley and Thomas have the appropriate supporting evidence from the house, and from the other suspects' statements," Val continued. "To see if there is any corroboration, or something in the details we otherwise might miss, I have to insist, Peter. It's not that I think you can't get the same information they can. I just think they might be able to supplement the interrog…uh, the discussion to get more context. They know what to ask."

Peter could feel his blood pressure start to rise. The continued use of the phrase 'the other suspects' rubbed him the wrong way; perhaps he was being too sensitive but he felt it implied Neal was in that category. And her implication that he could not get the same level of information from Neal as her agents was ridiculous. Not to mention, if they thought for a second that they could talk to Neal like he was anything other than an equal member of the team…

Ensuring Neal was treated like an equal was always something Peter looked out for. It took time and effort to ensure it. It was an investment, and sometimes more than he had originally bargained for. With his own team, it had been easier. With other agents, there was still sometimes a challenge… Neal never raised it himself, which also bothered Peter because he could never be sure he'd addressed all issues, but the overall New York office had quickly learned Neal was off limits, particularly when Burke was around. He was now in a different office, and didn't know their opinion, but could only assume based on the challenge of semantics he'd faced with the supervising agent now and during the last few days.

"There's also a matter of the police," Val continued before Peter could respond.

"The police?" Peter frowned. "In what way?"

"They need a statement as well. They were called to the scene, both to the house and to where Neal was located, and they have their own paperwork to address. A firearm was involved and—"

"Fine. I'll take care of that." Peter waved his hand dismissively. "I called them, I directed them. I can take care of that."

Val nodded. "That would be great. Thanks." She paused. "And, Peter…. Neal is clearly an important member of your team. I don't mean to imply otherwise. There are just certain protocols and formalities that we follow to ensure we're getting the best of our system. If you know what I mean."

Peter stiffened at the comments slightly. The best of the system, he repeated silently in his head. "Listen, Val. Neal's going to give the same statement regardless of which way we go."

"I don't discount that," she said, somewhat agreeably. "But if you don't mind, I'd rather we follow the protocol we have in place."

"Meaning you'd prefer Riley and Thomas facilitate?" He reminded himself to pick his battles, squashing the rising anger the best he could, and channeling calmness. Forcing it. She sounded genuine enough and he had to not read into it further. He knew that. So he forced himself to react with composure. He tried to imagine what Hughes would advise in this scenario, and he could immediately envision his supervisor telling him that he was overreacting. He was being too protective. He had to give Val and her agents the benefit of the doubt. They were equally invested in the case, and they just wanted to collect information in a consistent, documented manner. That didn't imply anything against Neal.

So while he felt a surge of annoyance, he finally shrugged. It was just a statement. He would watch. He would make sure it went according to his rules. He would interfere the moment it didn't, and hopefully it wouldn't come to that. "Fine, Val. Not a problem. If that's what you want, I'll just observe."

"It's not what I _want_ ," she responded. "It's what makes sense given their current proximity to the case. Besides, I'm sure given the events of the last twenty-four hours, you've got some catch-up to do anyway."

"Caught up pretty well last night," Peter responded stiffly, nodding down at the case files tucked under his arm. "But sure. Like I said, there's no issue." _And you better not make one,_ he thought.

* * *

Neal lifted his coffee cup to his lips and tilted it, draining the rest of the now lukewarm liquid into his mouth while carefully watching Peter and his interaction with this other female agent in the short distance from them. He swallowed down the bitter liquid with a gulp. Diane was making small talk with him, and he was trying to pay attention, nodding or giving one-word answers as needed, but his real attention was on the interaction several feet away. It was something else to focus on besides the other narratives in his head. A welcomed distraction.

His mind was otherwise still focused on the unseen news from that morning, and the fact there wasn't a single television in sight at this office. Finding something else to focus on was a momentary respite.

He observed immediately that both Peter and Val's posture indicated a less than desirable working relationship. While he kept his eyes on them, he took a few steps over to lean tiredly against an empty desk in the bullpen that was a close enough distance to them, easing some of the weight off his feet.

"I should introduce you to Agnes," Diana was saying. She stood casually, arms crossed over her chest.

Neal nodded like he was fully paying attention. "Who's Agnes?" he asked politely. Peter's back was to him, and he was blocking a clear view of Val, so reading lips was not a possibility. He continued to watch carefully, waiting for their angle to perhaps shift.

"She helped locate you," Diana replied.

"Locate me?" At that comment Neal looked up, frowning at Diana slightly. "What do you mean?"

"She was the one able to trace the call," Diana continued. "So that we could locate you." Then she smirked slightly. "Well, for the most part anyway… Did Peter tell you how he _actually_ knew where the house was?"

Neal shook his head slowly, uncertain whether he had heard this. He couldn't recall. He and Peter hadn't really talked about any of that. That he could remember anyway. "No. I don't think so."

"Probably because he doesn't want it going to your head," Diana said with a small laugh. "Maybe I shouldn't say."

"What?" Neal's brow furrowed. He had no idea where Diana could be going with this.

"Well, apparently you lifted a wallet off of this Messier guy back when you guys first caught up with him at his office?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "Sound familiar?"

Neal paused, frowning slightly. "Yes," he admitted. He recalled after the events of the stakeout, tossing the wallet to Peter in his own office and then bolting for safer territory. In the scheme of things, Peter had never really gotten that angry over it, at least relatively speaking.

"Well, Peter happened to think of that when Agnes was only able to narrow your phone call down to a certain geographic radius…" Diana continued. "Turned out, the address on the ID in the wallet was the house. He called Jones, got the address, and… bingo. Minutes later we were in the driveway. I guess sometimes crime does pay. But do _not_ tell Peter I said that to you."

Neal swallowed, frowning a bit. "So if I hadn't stolen that wallet, you wouldn't have found the house," he said slowly, pitch monotonous. Would that have mattered? he thought. He called Peter from the other location shortly thereafter anyway…

She let out an exasperated sigh. "Neal… No. We would have found the house. Trust me. Just maybe not so quickly." She eyed his sullen face and let out a frustrated sigh. "You know, I thought I'd actually get a laugh from you about that, Neal… That's the only reason I mentioned it. Lighten up."

"Lighten up… Well, I guess it's good I escaped on my own then," Neal responded dryly. "Rather than waiting for you guys." He didn't know why he felt the need to make the somewhat resentful comment. He knew it wasn't Diana's fault, any of this, and it didn't do any good.

"Neal…" she started. She rolled her eyes. "Come on."

"Is that why Peter was shopping when I called him?" Neal persisted. He realized he'd never raised that point to Peter, neither in observation or accusation. It hadn't occurred to him until now. He suddenly felt a slight rise in his feeling of cynicism. It wasn't at Peter necessarily, or Diana, who was now simply trying to make light small talk, but at the whole situation.

"Is _what_ why?" Diana asked skeptically. "You do realize the man left the city with nothing but the clothes on his back when your signal got lost, right?" Diana answered, a little defensively. "He's been beating himself up that he wasn't here in the office exactly when you called, but if that bothers you so much, then you can blame me for that. He needed a few things and—"

"Doesn't matter." Neal knew he had to stop where this discussion was going. He shouldn't have started it. Making these comments to Diana was not going to solve anything. It didn't involve her, and he was best suited to be quiet while he figured out his own feelings and next steps.

"Apparently it does," Diana responded cynically. "If your expression says anything."

Neal didn't respond, instead just tightening his expression. It had been silly to allow his walls to come down for this. He didn't want to talk to Diana about these details. About any of it. But before he could say so, his eyes caught Val's office door suddenly closing shut with both Peter and Val behind it. He studied the back of the wooden door as he grew slightly concerned. Closed door discussions were never good.

"What's that about?" he asked warily, glancing from the door back to Diana. He was thankful for the change in subject but now increasingly cautious.

Diana turned to view the office. She shrugged. "That… Well, that could be anything. They haven't exactly been best of friends, if you were to ask me…" she responded slowly. "Professionally cordial, I would say."

"Why?"

Diana shrugged. "Let's chalk it up to… local office politics and some differences in opinion? I don't know."

"Meaning you'd rather not say."

"No, I actually think that says a lot." Diana raised an eyebrow at him. "And I'd rather stay politically correct if you don't mind." She paused. "Ask Peter if you're so curious."

Neal didn't push further. Diana clearly didn't know what the conversation could be about either, and Neal's mind was actively running through potential scenarios despite the fact he didn't want to consider any of them. They all scared him.

"So do you want to meet Agnes?" Diana asked.

Neal shrugged. He knew Diana was trying to be polite, and he was thankful she wasn't backtracking to the other topics, but he really had no interest. "Not really. With the exception of Peter, I tend to avoid those who make a career of tracking down people like me…" he said slowly.

Diana smirked slightly at the response. "Fair enough, Neal. I can understand that. She was a big help though. Despite Peter scaring the hell out of her."

"Sometimes he does that," was all Neal responded. Leaning against the desk was becoming tiring. He pushed himself up to slide back to actually sit on the surface of the desk, allowing his legs to dangle above the ground and give his feet further respite. He was tired of standing. He'd been standing for days.

Diana didn't respond further at first, as she studied Neal briefly. He looked tired, and while all his answers had been responsive and genial enough, the underlying tone was muted, and so was his energy. His comments about their effort to find him, something she brought up in an attempt to be lighthearted, were all somewhat negative. He now shifted in his position on the desk, and the wince on his face was obvious. "You feel okay?" she asked.

"Yes," he responded to her instinctively. His eyes remained on Val's door. He paused and added, "Why?"

She shrugged, glancing down at the way his hands toyed with the empty coffee cup in his hands. "Just asking. You don't look so comfortable."

"I'm fine." He looked dismissive of the question. But a brief moment later he looked at her, as though eye contact might squash the questioning. He attempted a change in topic yet again. "Were any of the paintings at the house?"

"Your paintings?"

"Any paintings."

"Yes," she acknowledged. "They were wrapping them all up as part of evidence… A lot of records too. Did Peter tell you?"

"Not the details," Neal answered slowly. Peter had referenced the house being full of evidence, but Neal hadn't questioned it further.

"Well… If you consider all the supporting substantiating details we've been trying to pinpoint on these guys for the last week," Diana continued. "You basically led us right to it and more. This should be a slam dunk from here."

Slam dunk, Neal repeated in his mind, though he didn't respond. He was watching Val's door again, which was now slowly opening. Peter and Val were emerging, tones hushed as they concluded their conversation.

"That's fine," Peter was saying, nodding to Val. "We can do that." His expression was somewhat subdued. The case files were still tucked under his arm.

"Great. Thanks." Val gave a tight smile. She glanced over to Diana and Neal briefly, her eyes lingering on Neal for a moment, making short-lived eye contact, before she then looked back at Peter. "The local police will be here in about a half hour."

Peter nodded again, and didn't respond further as Val walked way down the hall without another word.

At that moment, Neal suddenly felt time stop, as though the entire world instantaneously froze over. The words rang in his ears, over and over. _The local police will be here in a half hour._ He felt his vision blur as a cold wave washed over him. He tried to concentrate but immediately all he could think about was the newscast that morning, and what the rest of the story must have covered. He wouldn't know what had been presented nor what evidence they had. But obviously it was something. If the police were coming, then they knew. That's why the door had been closed. That's what they had talked about.

He slowly raised his eyes towards Peter, who had had approached them. He was standing just a couple feet away, and he was saying something to Diana. Neal tried to gauge his expression, and tried to hear his words, but he was having a hard time. Neal couldn't hear them because his ears were buzzing. Peter hadn't actually looked at him. What if he was telling Diana – that this was it. Diana would turn and look at him. They both would. They would stare at him in disappointment and derision.

He couldn't stand to see that. So instead he looked around. Left and right. There was the entrance they had come through. There was also an emergency exit down to the far right. And Val had gone down to the other side of the floor to the left. Maybe there was another entrance down there.

He could still potentially find a way out.

Is that what he wanted? To just leave? He told himself, yes, because once the police were here, that was it. There was no going back. And he refused to go down like that. Not before he could explain himself to Peter.

But if he left like that, he wasn't allowing himself to explain to Peter. He was creating _more_ to explain, or taking the opportunity away altogether.

Why wasn't Peter saying anything now? That was driving Neal a bit crazy. If he knew, wouldn't he _react?_ Or was he purposefully not, to avoid him panicking? Were they going to play it cool until backup was here? Peter had never needed backup before…

He found himself clenching his hands, a nervous exertion of energy. His one hand crushed the empty coffee cup that was in his grip, and he looked down at it in slight surprise, having forgotten he was even still holding it.

"Neal," Peter spoke.

Neal looked up, the voice cutting through his reverie. The tone was too calm. Peter's face was too stoic. "Why are the police coming?" Neal asked him, schooling his own expression and tone to be similarly composed but unable to withhold the question. It fell off his tongue before he could even reconsider.

"They just need to talk to me…" Peter answered slowly. "You don't have to worry about that. But speaking of talking, Neal—"

"I need to go to the bathroom," Neal interjected abruptly. Speaking of talking was not a phrase he wanted finished and it was the first interruption he could think of.

Now both Peter and Diana's eyes were on him. Self-conscious, he slowly slid off the desk to his feet, standing by them cautiously. He wanted to ask which bathroom was closest to the exit. But that would be too suspect. Instead he simply asked, "Where is it?"

Peter regarded him briefly, as though considering saying something else first, but then nodded his head towards the far wall behind them. "Go down that hall on the far side of this room. To the right and then the door will be on your left."

Neal nodded. As he turned away, ready to disappear even if briefly, he froze again at Peter's voice.

"Neal. You sure you're okay?" The voice was a mix of concern and curiosity.

Neal turned back slowly, channeling forcefully all the calm he could, and gave both Peter and Diana a 'look' that was followed by an eye roll. "Yes. Can you please both stop asking me that?"

With that he walked away.

Peter dropped the case files he'd had tucked under his arm onto the desk Neal had just vacated with a sigh. They fell onto the surface with a thud. "He's not okay," he said to no one in particular once Neal was across the room and out of hearing distance.

Diana, being the only one present, simply nodded, responding whether the comment had been rhetorical or not. "He's acting a bit strange."

Peter glanced at her before returning his eyes to the retreating figure of his CI. "What were you guys talking about?"

She shrugged. "Not much. A little about the process to find him… But he just seems… distracted." She paused. "A little negative. I don't know. I mean, you shared a room with him all night. How was he?"

"Not okay…" Peter simply said again, tone cryptic.

"You think something else happened while he was in that basement?" Diana asked with a frown.

Peter ran a hand over his jaw, eyes focused on the entrance to the hall Neal had just disappeared down. "I don't know," he said honestly. "But I need to find out."

* * *

Neal did find and enter the bathroom first, at least keeping true to that statement and his initial excuse to step away. He tossed the empty, abused coffee cup into the trashcan by the door once inside, and then did a quick check to confirm the stalls were empty. Next he paced a little bit across the tile floor, running his hands through his hair. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed his concern that he _looked_ guilty, and he tried to straighten his features.

 _Get it together, Caffrey,_ he told himself. He found his pulse was pounding, and he could feel it in his extremities. He particularly felt it in his shoulder, where the wound beneath the bandage was throbbing.

He suddenly felt surrounded. He felt like Mozzie must at any time he came close to the office in New York. Neal was surrounded by Federally-owned walls and there were other law enforcement agents on the way. He unexpectedly was reminded of how he felt the first time he'd been really caught, and knew it was all over. That was proceeded by a trial and then the rest was history. But that time when he got caught, really caught, even though he'd known it was over, he didn't really realize at the time what that actually meant. Not until the real sentencing happened. And then it really was like walls had slammed down around him, figuratively and then eventually literally.

This time there was no denial. He knew what being locked up felt like. He knew what it really meant to have your wings clipped. As much as Mozzie claimed his current arrangement was one of servitude, it was different. It still had a sense of being unfettered. It was different than being on the inside. Far different. He knew what it felt like when there was time left to serve, and when time got added, and then the unknown.

He was then met by a wave of nausea.

He wasn't sure what caused it. Perhaps it was the horrible, bitter coffee that Diana had provided, the last of which he'd swallowed down ill-advisedly on an empty stomach. Or perhaps it was the thoughts that were tormenting him, including the horrible scenario analysis that was currently running through his mind, reminding him of a choose-your-own-adventure book that only had bad endings and the pages were torn out one you progressed, not allowing you to go back and start over.

The nausea built and he tried to swallow it back, but couldn't. He found himself rushing into one of the stalls and dropping to his knees before he lost the contents of his stomach. In heaving, disgusted with himself, his ribs screamed in excruciating pain as his stomach and chest rose in and out in spasms. He suddenly had a flashback to the basement, and the last time he'd been sick like this, alone and reflecting on the dark room and solitude in captivity.

For a moment he was lost again in that darkness, the filthy burn of bile in the back of his throat.

Eventually the heaving subsided, but the pain didn't, and he sat back on his heels with deep, gasping breaths, squeezing his eyes shut. He had a bitter taste in his mouth, and he knew he had to pull himself together. The whole purpose of today, in being here, had just been to make a statement. That was it. To talk about the last three days, and to provide evidence to close the case.

But now? Now that police were going to be involved? He'd known this was a possibility. Had slightly been in denial though fearful of it.

Neal started to think strategically. He'd been willing to offer information about his time at the house. It would help the case. But he now started to wonder if he should hold that information hostage in case it meant leverage in negotiating the terms against everything else he had done. Negotiating deals could be a very advantageous option.

He mulled that over only for seconds before realizing it wouldn't work. He knew it wouldn't. Diana had just said the case was now a 'slam dunk', simply from what they had found at the house.

He then grew suspicious. Then why did they even need his statement? They didn't. They actually had what they needed already. If the house was such a goldmine, his statement was superfluous. Maybe this was a trick.

Would Peter trick him? No, he told himself. No. He wouldn't. He hoped not.

He slowly rose, breathing normalized, and ran his hands over his face. He wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to rid himself of the taste of sickness. He reached to flush the toilet, averting his eyes from its contents, and backed out of the stall, the door of which he'd never closed. He felt thankful no one had entered the bathroom.

He walked out across the tiles again, feeling the buzz of anxiety mixed with residual nausea and pain as he approached the sink. He glanced at himself in the mirror and grimaced at the sight of reddened eyes and flushed complexion. Quickly he turned on the faucet and tried to remedy that, splashing water on his face, and then cupping his hands to bring water to his lips. He rinsed out his mouth, spitting, and then looked at his reflection again. He closed his eyes shut, willing the redness to lessen.

As his eyes were closed, he visualized the exits he had scanned the floor for just a minutes before.

In his mind, he clearly had a few options. He could deny the realm of possibility that any suspicion would be raised against him, and continue with the plan to just give a statement on what had taken place at the house. This was risky. And possibly a trap, since they clearly didn't need his statement to make leeway on the case anyway.

He could leave the building now. To go where, he wasn't sure. But he could easily leave the bathroom, turn down a hall, and find an exit. This would put him back into a similar circumstance to that of the gas station, with little resources other than the cell phone in his pocket, currently with a dead battery, and no plan in sight.

No, Neal, he told himself. Running isn't always the option.

His other alternative was the same from before: to tell Peter everything before he found out himself. But he was afraid he might already know, or would become too angry. This was also risky.

He decided to test the possibilities of option two. He wasn't sure he wanted to pursue it, as his mind told him it was a bad idea and he knew from his dreams that the option of being on the lam had negative consequences. But none of the alternatives were seeming too desirable at this point, and the least he could do was test if this was even an option.

He reopened his eyes, staring once more at the reflection in the mirror. You can do this, he told himself. Just a test.

Resolved in his decision, he made his way for the bathroom door.

He exited into the hallway easily, looking left and right slowly. He initially focused on where he had walked from, the direction that would lead him back to Peter and Diana. They were likely waiting for him, even talking about him. Was Peter telling Diana everything he knew? About the police and what had been uncovered?

The exits he had spotted before all involved walking back in that direction and potentially being spotted.

He looked down the hall in the other direction. The hall continued, and he was fairly certain there would be another exit on that side. But this was a Federal building. Any entrance that wasn't the main one likely would have an alarm on it, for use in emergencies only.

He looked back towards his first option, and towards the other end of the hall, which would lead back to the main entrance of the building they had come from. That was likely the only option, despite that it would require him to risk being seen.

He started to walk that direction, taking a deep breath, which simply caused more strain against his bruised ribs. He looked out of the corner of his eye across the room as he came back up against its perimeter, looking slyly towards the side of the bullpen Peter and Diana had been. While not allowing himself to turn his head, he could make out their figures in the same place as before, still in conversation.

Pushing his luck, he kept walking, with deliberate and swift steps, silent across the carpet despite all the noise in his head.

He only made it ten feet down that hallway, not even a fifth of the way to the entrance, when his luck ran out.

"Where you are going?" came Peter's voice.

Neal paused mid-step, hearing the voice from surprisingly close behind him and picking up on the slight impatience this time in Peter's tone. Neal kept his back to him for a moment, thinking, and then he slowly turned, ensuring his features were composed and relaxed. He hoped his eyes were less red. "I need air," he explained with a shrug, as though it were an obvious explanation.

* * *

Peter had been mid-conversation with Diana, attention still partially focused on the end of the room where Neal had turned down the hall, when he'd caught sight of the younger man coming back. He'd expected Neal to simply return to them, and hadn't even paused in his discussion with Diana, but found himself quickly frowning when Neal never even turned to regard them, simply walking straight past as though focused on something else.

With that he broke off his conversation with Diana, telling her to give him a minute, and ignoring her confused look, quickly moved to jog in the direction of his CI.

When he called out to ask where he was going, Peter couldn't help but notice how Neal froze more as though in surprise of being seen, almost like he felt 'caught', rather than simply turning and registering the question. When he did turn around, after what seemed like hesitation, his expression was clearly trying to convey casual and relaxed. Peter saw through it immediately. Past the forced nonchalance on his face, he could pick up the hint of a frown and the reddened eyes were hard to miss. His hair looked slightly wet as well.

The rationale of needing 'air,' voiced so glibly like there was nothing to it, was also not something Neal would say. So Peter studied him, feeling slightly skeptical and moreso suspicious. "Air, Neal?"

"Fresh air," Neal supplied. "I was just going to step outside."

Peter shook his head. "You can't just walk outside, Neal," he told him, while trying to figure out what might possibly be going on in Neal's head. Was it something about the case? Being here?

"Why not?" Neal tried to play it cool.

"Because you know you can't." Peter felt a little frustrated. "You don't have ID to come back inside," he explained, before Neal could object, like that was an adequate reason why he couldn't leave the building. "You came in with us."

Neal seemed to consider this. "I never got my wallet back," was all he responded instead. "Do they have it?"

Peter raised his eyebrows. "The wallet you had only contained Willy's information, Neal. You keen to turn into him again?"

Peter meant the comment in slight jest, but the look on Neal's face made it clear he didn't take it that way. While his expression remained muted, it was as though all the color suddenly drained from his face. He looked slightly like a deer in headlights. Peter's concern heightened, and took a step closer to him. "Hey. What's wrong? You want to sit down, Neal?"

Neal responded with a defensive shake of his head, and then took a cautious step back. "No," he responded. "I'm fine."

Peter frowned at him. "You sure? You don't look like you're feeling too well." Something wasn't right. Whether it was related to the night before or something else, Peter didn't know. That morning Neal had said very little, uncharacteristically more focused on the television at the hotel than the actual present, and this behavior was continuing to point to him being preoccupied with something. Or maybe in pain? He considered that for a moment. After all, the kid had been shot and his torso looked like he'd participated in a weeklong fight club. Could it be that? Before he could ask, Neal spoke again.

"Peter," he started slowly, voice still casual though there was a hint of something there, slight tentativeness. "When you said before that we might go home today, you meant _home_ home, right?"

Peter's frown deepened. What the hell sort of question was that? But Neal was looking at him carefully, as though ready to evaluate whatever the answer might be. "Neal, what other home would I mean?" he replied simply.

"Okay. Well is that still the case?"

"Yes, it's still the case. Why wouldn't it be?" Peter responded, brow furrowing. Maybe Neal just wanted to go home, Peter told himself. Maybe he was concerned about the case dragging on here. He watched Neal take another slow step away, puzzled by that cautious move away from him, and without waiting for a response, he continued a little impatiently. "Like I told you before, I can't guarantee it, Neal. But I want to go home as much as you do, trust me."

"And you wouldn't just say that if you knew something else was going to happen, right?"

Peter couldn't help but feel a bit exasperated. Where were these questions coming from? One trip to the bathroom and now Neal looked like he was having second thoughts even being in the building. "What else is going to happen, Neal?" He watched the younger man carefully as he didn't respond. "Neal," he repeated his name sternly, trying to keep his voice more concerned than aggravated. "Ten minutes ago I told Val we were going to go ahead with a statement from the last few days, and now you're making me regret I even brought you here. What's the matter?" He watched Neal take another step backwards, and then slightly rolled his eyes. "Neal, why are you backing away? If you take another step away from me, I swear to God…" He shook his head. "What's with all the questions?"

Neal then stood still, but looked as though it was taking self-restraint to do so. "I'm just making sure I know what's going to happen," he said slowly.

Peter continued to eye Neal carefully, unsure of what to make of the cryptic discussion. "Jason's not here," he told him. "You won't see him."

"I know," Neal acknowledged.

So it wasn't that, Peter thought to himself slowly. He took a few steps forward to approach the younger man, erasing the small distance Neal had not so subtly created. Then he sighed. "Tell me what you want me to explain," he requested patiently. He was suddenly reminded of when Neal was more inexperienced in this role. While nothing close to naïve, he'd been more tentative in a federal setting surrounded by suits, and had often accumulated lists of questions, silently saved until finally asked what was on his mind, all while trying to follow a course of activities and protocol that Peter soon realized he took for granted.

Neal was quiet at the question.

"What else can I explain?" Peter asked again, raising his eyebrows.

"Nothing," Neal responded, tone a bit uncertain. He met Peter's eye briefly but then looked down the hallway. "That's okay."

"You sure?"

Neal nodded.

Peter was pretty certain his demeanor had to do with something else that was bothering him. The something that would explain last night, this morning, the quietness, the distraction… "You're thinking of something, Neal," he stated factually. "Did something else happen that you don't want to talk about?"

"At the house?" Neal asked slowly.

"At the house, with Jason, or anywhere," Peter persisted. If he were home, this is where he'd pull Neal into his office, or somewhere, and sit him down. Neal's behavior was begging to be questioned. But they weren't home, and this wasn't their terrain. He had no where private to do this. "Is this what you wanted to talk to me about last night? Look, if something happened—"

"Hey, Boss," came the interruption from Diana at that moment as she found them in the hall, her expression looking insistent.

Peter gave her a slightly exasperated look without meaning too, and then glanced back at Neal. "What is it, Diana?"

"Sorry to interrupt," she started, looking between the two men, seemingly sensing the tension, before focusing back on Peter. "But the officers that Val mentioned? They just arrived, and they've got something that you're going to want to hear."

"They arrived?" Neal asked in incredulity, voicing rising. "How?" He looked perplexed. "Is there another entrance?"

Peter and Diana both observed him questionably, and he noticeably quieted.

"Where are they?" Peter asked Diana.

"They're gathering in the conference room," Diana continued. "I told Val I'd let you know."

Peter nodded. "We'll be right there."

She nodded and then left them, walking out of the hall back towards the other side of the room.

Peter turned back to Neal, trying to collect his thoughts and return back to the statement he'd been about to make before. About what could have happened. He'd been about to make some sort of rationale statement, to get Neal to focus and to—

"I can wait out here," Neal suggested, speaking first. "You go ahead."

"Neal…" Peter shook his head slowly. "No. You can sit next to me in the conference room."

"I don't need to."

"It's about the case, Neal," Peter interjected, frowning at him and the uncertainty on his face. Until going undercover on this case, Neal had been thirsty for more details pertaining to it. What was with the distancing now? "Don't you want to hear what they have to say?"

Neal hesitated. "Yes, Peter, but…"

"But what?" Peter persisted. "What is it? You're part of this case, Neal." He wanted no semblance of anything but Neal being part of the case. Neal sitting any of it out, whether he wanted to or not being a different story, could give Val or her team an impression that Neal wasn't equally allowed access to information, and that couldn't be further from the truth. If it appeared that way before they spoke to him, it could set the wrong precedent.

"Fine," Neal responded, though seemingly reluctant. "I'm part of the case, but you don't really need my statement anymore, Peter. After this."

Peter's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?" Here was this cryptic verbiage again, where clearly Neal was processing something and speaking only to the parts he needed verbal confirmation on.

"I mean my part is done. Right? Diana said they found everything they needed in the house. Records and anything else to nail them. She called it a slam dunk. So after this, if I talk—"

"Neal. Look. Let's do this after," Peter interrupted, a little impatiently. "I don't know what this is, but you're part of the case. Period." He paused. "I know there's something you haven't told me, and if this is about that—"

"Peter, come on…." Neal said his name with a sudden sly smile. "There's years of things I haven't told you."

Peter stepped closer and put his hands on Neal's forearms. "Stop." He noticed the unspoken wince and loosened his hand on the side of the injured shoulder. "Look, you and I both know that there's something from this case specifically that you haven't told me, is that right?" He waited, eyes locking with the deep blue orbs inches from him, and finally got a nod in response. "Why?"

Neal hesitated. He looked down at the hands on his arms. "Peter…"

"I thought we were past keeping things from each other, Neal," Peter said insistently. "We've got this case in a great place. What is it?"

Neal nodded his head towards the other room. "Don't you think they're waiting for you, Peter?" he asked.

"And they can wait," Peter responded firmly. "Is it something to do with you and Jason, Neal?"

"No." Neal shook his head gently.

"Something that happened with Jason?" Peter felt maybe hypothesizing would spark some sort of admittance. "You can tell me if it is."

"No, Peter," Neal replied adamantly.

"Something that happened before this case?"

" _No_ ," Neal insisted.

"Then what?" Peter asked in exasperation. "Neal, I can't just play twenty questions with you. I didn't push you last night, but I can't keep doing this. If something happened, then you need to tell me."

Neal wriggled his arms away from the hold, which Peter easily released, and stepped away. "I want to tell you," he admitted earnestly.

"Then tell me." Peter paused, searching the younger man's face. "Did you do something?" he asked doubtfully. He felt Neal was acting cagey, like he was hiding something, but he couldn't figure out why. This was like the evening before all over again. But what could it be? The last three days had been completely in the line of duty, and had led to them nabbing Messier and Jason. What could he possibly be hiding?

He was surprised when Neal suddenly nodded. He frowned. "What, Neal? What'd you do?" At Neal's increasingly hesitant look, he glanced in the direction towards where Diana had walked a few minutes ago. He knew they were probably waiting for them in the conference room. "Listen – let's see what they have to say and then you and I are going to talk."

"But I should tell you before they do," Neal responded. His eyes also looked towards the other end of the room.

"They?" Peter echoed. "Who's they?"

"The police," Neal responded slowly. "I'm not sure if they know, but if they do… then I should tell you now."

Peter felt something twist in his gut. The words didn't make sense, but Neal said them in a heartfelt way that made him wonder. "Neal, what are you talking about? If I knew it wasn't impossible, I'd swear you're still under the influence of something from the hospital."

"I'm not."

"I know. But are you okay?" Neal didn't respond, and Peter shook his head. "Okay. Come on. Let's go to the conference room and then we'll talk."

"Wait. Listen." Neal took a deep breath. "Before I called you," he started slowly. "I almost didn't." He paused, taking another breath. "When I got out of the woods, after leaving the house, I'd been running a while, and what I started to do next… That's what I want to tell you."

Peter just stared at him incredulously. Neal had allegedly run four miles from the house to where he had been found. The phone call had been surreal, as was finally seeing him in person. All of that felt like distant memory. What the hell else was he alluding to? The gun? Peter knew he'd had a gun. Is this what it was about? Had he forgotten him taking it from him?

"First, I went to the gas station," Neal started. "There was a woman there. With her kids. I didn't have any money."

Peter listened distractedly, wondering where all of this was going. "Neal, I don't know where you're going with this, but we can talk about it after we hear what the police have to say."

"No, just let me finish." Neal shook his head persistently. "Just listen. I feel worse about what happened afterwards," Neal continued. He began to ramble slightly, tone getting a little faster as though just trying to get the words out. "After that, there was a car. And it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I don't know exactly where I thought I'd go from there, but it just seemed like the only option at the time." He shook his head again. "But then I changed my mind. It's interesting that when I dream about it, I didn't change my mind, and that's where—"

"Dream?" Peter interrupted the rambling, which was confusing him, and repeated the word. "Is this what you were dreaming about last night?" Now it was starting to make sense. At the hospital Neal had started to have some sort of dreams, and that had persisted into the evening before. Enough to wake him up a few times in some sort of night terror. Is that what was bothering him? Whatever had happened in the dream? "Neal, it's fine. That's all a dream. That's not real."

Neal frowned and looked a little surprised. "What? No, it is. It is real. Peter, I'm trying to tell you what happened."

"I get it," Peter responded. He reached out and put a hand on Neal's good shoulder, squeezing lightly. He glanced again towards the other room. "We've got to hear what the police have to say, Neal. We've kept them waiting. Then we'll talk about this. We can even talk about it before you talk to them."

Neal looked a little startled. "Before I talk to who?"

"The statement we talked about." Peter used the grip he had on his shoulder to pull Neal gently towards him, frowning at the concerned look on his face. "Calm down. Whatever it is, it's just a dream, Neal. Don't worry about it."

"But it's not just a dream, Peter," Neal insisted.

"Neal, enough…" Peter persisted, starting to steer him towards the other room. He shifted his arm, moving his hand to the small of his back and keeping close enough to ensure they kept walking in the right direction, towards the conference room at the other end of the floor. He could feel the rigidity in Neal's frame, particularly as they moved further across the floor. He was becoming more resistant to moving in that direction.

Finally, he paused, stopping and turning to face the younger man. "What is it, Neal?" he asked pointedly, a little exasperatedly. "The police? Val? You haven't even met her. And we already clarified that Jason isn't here."

"It's not that," Neal objected.

"Then what?" Peter asked impatiently. "What are you afraid of?"

Neal eyed him for a moment, unblinking, and then sputtered out, "You."

"What? Me?" Peter repeated incredulously, raising his eyebrows. "Why me?"

"Because it isn't a dream," Neal persisted. "You're going to realize that."

Peter took a deep breath and then just rolled his eyes. "Neal…"

Neal opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, they both spotted Diana walking towards them again.

"Everyone's gathered and they're going to give the update," Diana said as she approached, looking at them slightly expectantly. "You guys ready?"

Peter nodded, giving Neal a quick once over, and stating, "Yes," for the both of him. He gently took Neal by the arm and tugged gently. "Let's go," he said in a low tone. "You and I will talk after." He ignored the deep sigh he heard Neal exhale.


	38. Chapter 38

I just want to say I'm very sorry for the delayed update this week. A few unexpected things happened, so while I thought I'd be early updating, plans went awry. But without further ado, here's the latest chapter, and thank you very much for those still with me.

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* * *

Seeing few alternatives present themself, Neal found himself reluctantly and without further comment accompanying Peter in the direction of the conference room. As he walked, his feet felt increasingly heavy and his mind was buzzing. Meanwhile, he kept himself composed, knowing at this point his options were limited and he was soon going to have a bigger audience. He internally cringed at his attempt to 'confess' and the way it had come out. What was wrong with him?

Peter said, 'they would talk later,' almost dismissively. But… that wasn't so simple.

For better or for worse, he'd attempted to get the truth out. After all his own internal deliberations, all the conflicting considerations and instinctual hesitation, he had finally simply just tried to put it all out there. It was never easy to verbalize something that had a strong potential to compromise him or get him in trouble, but knew it was important – vital even – for Peter to hear it from him first.

Expressing the events out loud wasn't easy. In fact, the longer he waited, the harder it got. It went against his core instinct that he would express something so incriminating. While finding the 'right' moment to do it also proved challenging, eventually he knew it had to be done, especially as he felt like his fate was unavoidably and quickly coming up for judgment. It needed to happen before he found himself in that conference room.

Now, he knew that he'd basically failed. While words came out out, the account lacked details. In his mind was a vivid image of what had happened, almost like watching himself in a movie, but it didn't translate readily into a real admission. He knew in hindsight he hadn't provided enough specificity to Peter. But before he could even correct any of that, Peter had… dismissed it? Not entirely, but… Kind of. Sort of. He'd dismissed it as a dream.

Did Peter really think he was concerned over a dream? That Neal Caffrey would confuse reality and a reverie? Had the last three days distorted both their perceptions so much?

The conference room wasn't far, and Neal could feel the impending, inevitable confrontation that was sure to happen inside. Once in that room, Neal would no longer have control over what would transpire. He'd lost that chance. He didn't know which side Peter would be on. He dreaded that, and wanted more than anything to walk in any other direction. Peter had dropped the hold on his arm once he was certain he was indeed walking with him, which made it all that much more tempting.

But he withstood the temptation. It would only serve to postpone a certain fate. And it would likely frustrate Peter. If he had any chance of Peter taking his side, or at least listening, it would help if he weren't already annoyed with him.

So despite feeling like he was walking into a judgment, as though to be sentenced, he continued. He felt as though he was walking into a vindictive courtroom. He could hear his heart beat loudly in his ears like a drum.

This "update" could mean anything. It was hard to preempt the unknown. But his biggest fear was less the update itself and moreso Peter's reaction. Peter's questions. Why would he do something like that? Why hadn't he said anything? Peter would expect him to have a reason.

 _I tried to tell you_ , he'd have to say. It was Peter who discounted it. Peter, who above all, stressed the importance of truth and transparency…. He was the one reducing it to a dream. Neal could only imagine the look on his face as it all came out.

But a dream? That dismissal weighed heavily on him. Neal was perplexed. Ironically, on a normal basis, he would have probably been completely relieved at this unbelievable reaction. He could check the box as to having tried to be honest, and would blissfully live without ever having had to pay the consequences.

But this wasn't a normal basis. This wasn't an 'all other things being equal' situation. Nothing else would be equal. This was unchartered waters, with other potential third party participants who might in minutes, or even seconds, point a finger. And when their accusations corroborated with what he had just tried to poorly admit to, then the ugly puzzle would suddenly be complete for Peter.

He briefly debated pausing again before it was too late, and asking Peter if he could trust him, to at least hear him out, no matter how this went. Surely Peter would offer that. He could trust Peter that much.

But before he could decide to do that, he found himself already walking through the doorway of the conference room behind Diana and Peter. From that point, there was no going back, pausing, or asking for support. It was the point of no return.

The air felt different past the doorway. Cold.

There was a large wooden table in the center of the room, surrounded by a dozen or so chairs, more than half occupied. He tried to tell himself he was imagining it, but he felt like the eyes of the others in the room were suddenly on him once he walked into the space. And while normally he might enjoy turning heads, he did not in a situation like this. So he kept his own eyes averted, not looking down because that would be a too obvious signal of guilt, but looking somewhat past them to avoid any specific visual contact. At the same time, he quickly took inventory of the room as he followed Diana and Peter to the other side of the table where there were empty chairs.

Val Clarke, the agent he was still yet to formally meet, was there sitting at the center of the table. Beside her sat what appeared to be three other agents, two men and a woman, wearing suits and looking comfortable in their own home field office. They were chatting amongst themselves, tones low. Then there were three uniformed police officers seated on the other side of the table as well, and Neal tried to recall the faces of the police he'd confronted the day before to compare the images. He realized his memory of those facial features were fuzzy. In his recollection, he couldn't make out clearly defined faces, and this made him slightly uneasy. Usually his recall ability was precise, almost photographic.

He hesitated.

"Sit," came the hushed instruction beside him from Peter. The man was pulling out a chair from the table to take a seat himself, next to where Diana was already settled. Neal silently followed suit, pulling back the chair on Peter's other side, keeping his expression blank.

He felt his heart pounding faster as he sat. This was it. The chair felt uncomfortable. His wounded shoulder throbbed. He started to feel a chilling sense of fate unraveling.

After just a small pause, Val began to speak, looking around the room. "Alright," she said, clearing her throat briefly. The side conversations quieted and attention turned towards her, Neal's included. "So I think we have everyone that was expected. Thanks for coming together so quickly." She folded her hands in front of her on the table. "I know we have a lot to cover."

Would they cuff him right away? Neal wondered. How would that work? He shifted uncomfortably, hiding a wince when his ribs reacted painfully. Last time he went to prison, he wasn't injured.

"I think most of us know each other already…" Val continued. Her eyes passed over her agents, the uniformed police officers, and then settled on the White Collar division. "Considering the majority of us have been working pretty closely together over the past twenty-four to forty-eight hours."

Would they lead him out in cuffs? Neal speculated. Was it going to be like a 'gotcha' moment? And who had the authority here? The local field office? The police? Peter? They were technically in the local jurisdiction…

"Neal," Val spoke.

Neal met her eye at the sound of his name. He stiffened slightly. He felt a strong urge to turn his eyes towards Peter, or to reach out, to make some sort of contact, but stayed still, keeping his hands entwined on his lap. He knew his expression gave nothing away, he made sure of it, and so he waited. He considered what she would start with.

"I know we haven't been formally introduced," Val continued. She gave him a small smile. "So you're probably the only one here with some questions about who's who in the room. And I know there's a lot of us." Without waiting for a response, she paused only briefly before continuing to speak. "But I assure you, we all know you. And we're appreciative for what you've done the last few days, to get us here. This was a big feat. We know it wasn't easy."

Feeling hesitant, Neal instinctively felt a frown emerging, but he quickly pushed it away. He kept his face passive as he tried to understand. Had she just said they were _appreciative_? Why did it sound like she was expressing gratitude?

"Believe it or not, we've actually got one of the biggest cases in our history right now," Val said slowly. Her smile widened slightly. "This case captures crime that crosses borders, shapes, timelines, and not to mention agencies… We're only here only due to the Bureau's partnership across departments, and you're part of that." She looked around the room. "Between White Collar and the local law enforcement, it's been a collaborative effort. But on the impact of this case specifically… It continues to grow. And that's why we wanted to get this group together so that Officers Klein and Mahoney can tell all of you what they just gave me an update on this morning. I think you'll be pretty blown away."

Neal felt increasingly perplexed by the statements. They were alluding to a material update, as was expected, but the more she spoke, the more he felt distanced from the report. It suddenly felt far less personal. Were they not going to comment on his activities? Her comments now seemed to be directed towards the broader group, and no longer explicitly directed at him. The attention on him had actually been quite brief…

One of the uniformed officers was speaking before he could process it any further.

"As Agent Clarke states," the man spoke, "this case has been pretty all-encompassing…" He paused. "One area that we've been particularly focused on was the apparent connection of one of your suspects seemingly to law enforcement... For example, as we all know, the vehicle that was identified had plates that tied the ownership back to one of our own."

Neal felt conflicted as the man continued to speak, though he also felt himself become notably less tense. The more it progressed, the more he was certain the discussion had nothing to do with him. Would it though… that remained to be seen, but he would have expected they'd start with him if that were the case…

The officer continued. "The PO Box that was involved also turned out to be registered to the same name as the vehicle. Two for two. Though there had been no payment over the last couple of years, the status remained active. Now, in looking into this, it's important to note that we had never actually seen a photo of your suspect."

Neal now allowed his frown to form. Photo? Of Messier or Jason? Where were they going with this?

"When he got booked yesterday, and we finally saw his image…" the officer persisted, "then it became much more obvious. The linkage to our officer was pretty evident given your suspect's very strong resemblance to him. It's also important to mention that he's been a person of interest to us in a handful of other incidents. Your 'Graham Messier' was actually the brother of our detective from the southern state district. Messier's not his real name."

"It's Desmond," Neal spoke.

The officer paused and looked over at him with an expression of surprise. His brow furrowed. "Yes. It is. How did you know that?"

"His brother's a cop?" Neal asked.

"Yes," the officer confirmed, nodding slowly. "And all signs point to him assisting his brother in these activities. Including the one you're current involved in. His name is on most of the records. How did you know the name Desmond?"

"He used that name ten years ago…" Neal responded, thinking this over.

The officer paused in hearing that response, frowning slightly, but then continued to speak. "So this detective has been a little… Well, let's just call it a bit controversial in the last few years… Not just his behavior but the lifestyle he's afforded beyond what a detective's salary would have allowed… But there has never been anything tangible for us to stick on him… Trust me, we tried. He's had a couple instances of unpaid leave while we investigated some claims, but again, nothing stuck… Add in his brother, and this additional paper trail, and that changes. It's the missing link. The house, while not in his name directly, is in the name of a trust that he is on…" The officer paused. "I mentioned his connection on most of the paperwork we found. Other than a few open administrative questions, this is actually an incredible breakthrough."

"So he's a dirty cop?" Diana asked, frowning as though in disbelief. Clearly Neal wasn't the only one not expecting this specific update.

Neal listened to this, processing these new details. He knew for a fact that Messier was the same person he and Willy had done business with years ago, under the name Desmond. He never dealt with him closely, because Jason was his primary point of contact. But if his brother had been the other half of the brains behind the operation, while actually be part of law enforcement…

He felt a chill pass over him at the thought of having done business with someone who actually could have arrested him on the spot.

He suddenly thought again of his friend. Adam. Adam's image came back to him. The one in the case file. Murdered. Eyes open. Adam had spoken about overhearing other activity they were involved in. Then he simply disappeared. Unbeknownst to them at the time, it was facilitated with a badge involved.

"Dirty cop is polite description in this example. In more ways than one," the officer confirmed to Diana, tone a bit sardonic, nodding. "But he's been elusive. Never had a strong connection to anything before. Clearly this brother's alias of 'Messier' was a strong once. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Messier was an identity of someone that they knew. Someone he was able to opportunistically take it from. I mean, the history on that name. You guys saw it in your own files. The guy even files taxes under that name… For years."

Neal listened to this, taking himself back ten years and again thinking about the interaction he'd had, most of it through Jason, and not Messier directly. Neal's face-to-face with him at his New York office had really been the first true in-person meeting. His elusiveness all kind of made sense now.

"What about Jason?" Neal asked.

"Jason is a true identity," the officer responded. "First name anyway. Found some other aliases for the surname. I will say he's another character…" He shook his head slightly. "And he has a whole other set of demands, as some of you already know, which we can talk about later as well…"

"Yeah, and I'll tell you right now, he's not getting a deal," Peter interjected. "Nothing that even remotely comes close."

"A deal? What do you mean?" Neal asked. He glanced away from the officer, gaze turning now to Peter. "What kind of demands?"

"The usual," the officer replied.

Peter rolled his eyes in exasperation, muttering something under his breath, and not answering Neal directly as the officer continued to speak.

"He's offered us some potential information; something I guess he thinks is incremental to what he assumes we have. He's offering it on the condition he can potentially leverage something from it. Lesser charges for increased cooperation, or something similar. Like I said, the usual."

"What else could he possibly have?" Diana asked skeptically. "Sounds like we have quite a bit, especially after this update."

"Exactly," Peter replied, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter what he has. It's not happening." He paused and then added, "Not to mention he imprisoned an undercover federal informant against his will for three days."

"Peter…" Neal objected, sighing slightly.

"And add assaulting the federal informant," Peter continued, tone increasingly irritated. "No deal."

Neal tried not to cringe at the comment. He remained a bit uneasy about these details of his involvement. Everything he'd done was to garner evidence against Jason and Messier. Not to further involve himself in the case. He'd told Peter from the beginning that he didn't want his name included in that way. He also didn't want to be the victim. He didn't want to have to potentially testify. The thought of being anywhere near a testimony made his skin crawl. But he knew now wasn't the time to bring that up. He could nearly feel the anger radiating off of Peter from his seat next to him.

At the same time… He continued to feel the weight lifted that they weren't directly talking about him… Or anything he had done that morning the prior day.

"Neal, speaking of your time in the house… I know we'll get a more detailed statement from you today," Val began, shifting her attention back to him, "and thank you in advance for that; but can you tell us who shot you? Was it Jason?"

Neal paused, feeling the eyes around the room turn to view him once again. Maybe he'd spoken too soon. He'd been mentally preparing himself for the expected confrontation and accusation, ready to build a defense, but now found himself re-pivoting his focus for this change in direction. "No," he replied, calmly answering the question. "It was Messier. Jason was already… incapacitated."

"And who incapacitated Jason?"

"Well… I did," Neal said slowly. An image of the needle reappeared in his head. He remembered the struggle with Jason, and the one that followed shortly thereafter with Messier. His shoulder throbbed further. "In self-defense."

Val nodded, and then asked, "Did you fire any shots?"

Neal searched his memory. "Yes," he began. He knew he had, but now tried to place the details of when. Why did yesterday feel like so long ago? "Maybe three," he stated. "I think."

"At Jason or Messier?"

"Well, two of them were actually at the wall…" Neal started slowly as he replayed the moment in his mind. He noted Val began to frown and quickly tried to explain. "I was shooting at the chain. I thought I could break it, if I shot at it. Which despite the frequency of this approach in movies, I soon found it to be more of a myth, or maybe I'll chalk it up to cinematic deception. Either way, it's a far cry from a realistic escape plan." He cleared his throat as he continued. "And one shot was _toward_ Messier but not _at_ him… I didn't want to shoot him, but I had to make it seem that way." He shook his head. He really didn't like guns. He wondered what Peter's expression was, but was too uneasy to check.

Val replied slowly. "I see. And those three shots were with the gun you were found with?"

"Yes." Neal nodded. Did that matter? He became slightly more uncomfortable at the specific questions. What was she trying to get at? Maybe things were turning…

"Okay, thanks," Val said. "That's helpful. And between the house and the address you were picked up at – you made it there on foot? No one helped you?"

Neal nodded. "I ran there," he replied, tone a bit guarded. He felt like he'd explained this already. Maybe this is where the direction of the discussion would change again. The confirmation of the address he was picked up at was clearly leading to the question of what else had happened nearby. They were confirming his location and timeline. "I don't know how far it was." Maybe he could be vague.

"It was far," Peter responded stiffly. He slipped his hand over to Neal's leg beneath the table, palm resting on his thigh, as he looked across the tabletop to address the other agent. "What can we say – he loves to run. Look, Val, he'll give a more detailed statement later today like we already agreed on," he offered slowly. "Why don't we talk through what else was found in the house? I'd like to see the inventory, if you have the latest one. Whatever Jason thinks he has to offer, I'm pretty sure you're going to find you already have it. Can we focus on that?"

Val nodded. "Of course. Sure." She gestured at one of her agents. "Riley, you want to take us through it?"

The agent nodded. "Of course."

Neal relaxed slightly in his seat as again the conversation shifted away from him. He felt another quick squeeze on his thigh before Peter's hand retracted back to his own lap. Meanwhile, he kept his eyes on the surface of the table, ensuring an unassuming expression.

Another thirty minutes passed in the conference room, and Neal felt a mix of sentiments. Partially at ease, though he was mildly concerned, always cautious, that it could be premature. While intrigued by the turn in the case, and the new information on Messier, Neal occasionally felt uneasy during the meeting, as though there was still time for the conversation to return to him once again.

He felt this way all the way up until the end when the conversation came to a close, and people were pushing back their chairs to stand, small talk resuming.

Just like that, the discussion continued and ended without ever even remotely venturing back to his time at the gas station, his activities up the block with the Honda, or anything even closely related or connected.

That was it. Meeting adjourned.

He then felt… relieved?

"That's it?" Neal muttered to himself as he stood, following the action of the others who had already gotten to their feet. It seemed natural to stand as the rest of them did. His pulse was now at a regular pace.

"That's it?" Diana echoed back from beside him, frowning. "That was huge, Neal. A dirty cop? I never saw that coming. And did you hear everything else we have?"

It was huge. He knew that. And he nodded distractedly in agreement, turning his head to observe Peter. The one he'd been afraid of. Clearly the man hadn't heard his comment. He was already speaking with Val and one of the officers a few feet away, out of earshot.

"It's huge," he verbally agreed, turning back to Diana and confirming with a firmer nod, meeting her eye assuredly.

She gave him a slightly critical look, as though picking up on his initial mixed reaction. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He nodded, giving her a smile.

Meanwhile, with the other voices in the room humming in background noise, Neal suddenly felt his confidence returning. That wave of relief and respite when the storm cloud passes… The moment had passed.

Was that it? All that concern and foreboding imagery for nothing? His mind was now reprocessing the scenarios. If they hadn't said something now about what he had done… Then they must not have more to say about it? Surely they wouldn't be conveying additional information outside of this meeting… This was it. This was the update. He still didn't know what the news had conveyed that morning, but clearly it wasn't enough… It couldn't be enough.

The next steps on this case would be Messier and Jason. Not Messier, Jason, and Caffrey.

Suddenly he felt foolish. He'd almost played all his cards. All that over nothing. That could have been a disaster.

He felt a small sense of giddiness…

Why had he overreacted? He'd literally been sick over it. He immediately blamed the residual impact of the last three days. Three days as Willy. Three days of limited human contact, limited lighting, limited time for anything other than painting. Three days lost in abject thoughts. Those three days had gotten under his skin and tainted his reaction. Clearly.

Now it was over. All that was left was to go home.

Peter was returning to him and Diana now, and he had a pleased look on his face. That reinforced Neal's thoughts and his relieved sentiment. Peter gestured at them to follow him, and he and Diana both did, walking past the others still left in the conference room to exit into the hallway.

Ahead of them, Val had already exited and Neal watched her returning to her office with one of her agents at her side, also deep in discussion. He wondered when he would have to give them a more detailed account of the prior day.

"So can we just talk for a minute about Messier's real identity?" Diana was asking as they walked, retracing steps back to where they'd been before, towards the bullpen. "How didn't they realize this before? I mean, it literally just took them seeing his photo to realize he was blood related to the prime suspect of other investigations?"

"Separate investigations, completely unrelated," Peter responded slowly, shrugging slightly. "Can't say I haven't seen it before, unfortunately… One federal case, one under the purview of local authorities. I mean, what can I say… Right hand doesn't talk to the left… And voila. No connections, no trail, and dead ends."

"Voila indeed. Bureaucratic red tape," Neal chimed in with a small smile. "It sometimes creates opportunities."

"Oh yeah? Opportunities?" Peter asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically as he glanced over at him. "Wanna rephrase that?

Neal cleared his throat. "Uh, _missed_ opportunities," he quickly corrected, smirk disappearing, replaced by a more earnest expression. "That's what I meant." He paused and then added, "And I mean, missed opportunities to address crime more holistically, obviously."

"Obviously…" Peter echoed with a slight hint of sarcasm. They reached the area they'd been earlier, and he briefly glanced at the pile of case files he'd left on the desk before looking back at Neal. "You're back I see."

Neal caught the tone of the comment and paused. Processing the words and what it implied, he frowned slightly.

"So I'll follow-up with them on what else they have," Diana offered, missing the interaction. "I want to see if there's any other links now that we know the other connections. And this trust that the house is under. Jones can have them cross-reference the names again." She slipped her phone out of her pocket, flipping it open. "I know we've got a lot already, Boss, but it's worth seeing what else we can find."

Peter nodded, watching her for a moment. "I agree. Good idea… But take a seat and call him from here if you don't mind." Then he again turned his head and gave Neal a look. "You sit too. I'll be right back, and then you and I will go."

Neal felt his reinvigorated confidence falter slightly. "Go where?" he asked uncertainly.

Peter kept his eyes on his, and neither of their eye contact wavered. "You wanted air," he said matter-of-factly. "So I'll get you air. But I just need ten minutes to talk to them. Then I'm taking you to get lunch." He then sent a look back to Diana. "Ten minutes," he said simply, the 'please' unspoken. "Tops."

"Wait. What's that look mean? Am I watching him now?" Diana asked skeptically, looking at Peter and holding up her hand in question, open phone in her grasp. She frowned and then looked over at Neal before returning the questioning gaze to Peter.

Peter gave her an appeasing look. "Can you both just give me ten minutes?"

"I don't need to be watched," Neal said. "And I don't know what you mean by lunch. It's only ten thirty," he pointed out, spotting a clock on the far wall of the room.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Then call it breakfast, Neal. Or brunch. You're the king of semantics. Figure it out. We passed a diner on the way over here. They'll be serving something."

"A diner? Brunch means French toast and Bloody Mary's, Peter," Neal pointed out. "Not a diner."

"It doesn't actually," Peter responded, raising his eyebrows. "But fine. Call it something else. Unless you want to stay here instead?"

"No…" Neal spoke slowly, slightly indecisively. He didn't necessarily want to stay in the building, but felt a little conflicted at Peter's invitation, jokes aside. He knew it was to pick up from the earlier conversation. Maybe about his 'dream.' But now the earlier urgency to disclose all of the details to Peter felt unnecessary. Peter's fleeting comment about him being 'back' also now rubbed at him.

"No?" Peter echoed. "Then sit."

What had seemed so urgent before, and almost a devastating failure when he couldn't get enough detail out in time, now seemed regrettable. Neal considered this as he casually moved to sit behind the desk he stood beside, obeying the instruction. He looked over at Diana, who still looked a bit disconcerted, phone remaining open in her hand.

"Ten minutes," Peter repeated, glancing briefly at his watch. "Okay? No more than fifteen."

"We'll be here," Diana confirmed.

Neal met Peter's eye as he looked up again. He said nothing, but watched Peter look away to make brief eye contact with Diana again before nodding and walking off.

Diana moved to lean against the desk that Neal sat behind and turned her head to view him skeptically. "So," she said slowly, raising an eyebrow. "Man of the hour. What earned you the privilege of breakfast?"

Neal frowned in return. "Privilege?" he scoffed. "I wouldn't exactly call it a privilege. And I'm clearly not the man of the hour."

"No?"

"No." Neal shook his head.

"Then what is it?" Diana asked.

"What's what? I don't know." Neal continued to shake his head. "I didn't ask to go to breakfast. Or lunch."

"What were you guys talking about before I came back?"

"Nothing. _Especially_ not breakfast."

She eyed him a little suspiciously. "Nothing."

"I wasn't feeling well," Neal responded, an out of character answer that was slightly true. One that he hoped would put a stop to the inquiry. It proved worthwhile as he watched her expression change a bit, as though suddenly feeling contrite.

"Sorry, Neal," she said. "I can imagine. You're probably ready to just get home after all this."

"Yes," Neal said simply. He looked ahead of him on the desk, pulling forward one of the files blindly, avoiding any additional commentary.

Diana turned her attention to her phone.

Neal wound up successfully pretending to review the file, not processing any of it, until Peter came back, said his name, and gestured at him to follow.

It wasn't quite like walking to the conference room had felt, but he realized he wasn't yet exactly in the clear.

* * *

The diner was a typical one, inside and out. Neal registered the smell of freshly brewed coffee and bacon as they entered. His eyes scanned the countertop seating at the front of the restaurant as they walked in, and then looked beyond the half-occupied barstools towards the booths and tables in the broader room to the back. Peter was heading there, passing a sign that said 'please seat yourself' and Neal followed.

The car ride had been uneventful and only a few minutes in duration. Peter had not yet broached any topics, filling that time with small talk, and Neal was uneasily waiting for that moment when a more directed question came his way.

A moment later, Peter slid into an empty booth by the window, stretching his arm to grab the large, image-laden menus that were balanced between a napkin dispenser and a metal cup of utensils at the end of the table.

Trailing just behind him, Neal reached the table quietly.

"How you feeling?" Peter asked, sliding a menu towards the younger man as he watched him more slowly settle into the booth.

Neal uncomfortably shifted himself on the cushioned bench towards the middle of his side of the table, grimacing briefly at the aches the movement caused. He opened his mouth to respond, but silenced himself as Peter quickly added, "And don't just say fine."

Neal looked up at the comment, regarding Peter briefly, before eventually responding, "I feel… better than yesterday."

Peter gave him a slight smirk. "You realize that's not saying much, Neal?" he replied. "Comparing to the day you were shot, ran miles barefoot, and escaped your captors?"

"Perhaps. Yet it's an accurate statement," Neal answered.

"Fair," Peter responded with a nod. He flipped open his menu. "Diners," he stated. "The place you can literally find anything you want to eat, at any time of day."

Neal just raised his eyebrows, reaching to slide his menu closer and opening it as well. "Yep. Page after page of grease and high cholesterol."

Peter raised his eyes and gave him a look. "Complaining?"

"No," Neal responded. He shook his head. "It's a vast improvement over the menu I had at my disposal the last few days." He looked up. "Minus the pizza, of course."

"That was okay," Peter acknowledged. He eyes returned to his menu. "Nothing compares to pizza in New York though."

"Can we go back to New York today?"

Peter sighed, turning the page of his menu to the next section. "Maybe, Neal." He paused and then said slowly, without looking up, "So. Are you going to start or should I?"

Neal swallowed. He looked up at Peter again, but the man's eyes remained fixed to the menu. "Start with what?" he asked innocuously.

"Don't play a game, Neal."

"I'm not."

A waitress walked up to their table, pulling out a notepad and a pen from her pocketed apron. "Good morning, fellas," she greeted. "How are you doing today? Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee, tea…"

"Coffee," Neal responded.

"Same," Peter answered.

She nodded. "Great. I'll give you some time with the menus. The quiche of the day is Lorraine."

Neal watched her walk off and then returned his gaze to Peter. "You said I was 'back,'" he started slowly. He knew he'd likely regret starting the discussion, but it was going to happen anyway, and that comment was weighing on him. "What did you mean by that?"

Peter flipped to another page of the menu casually. "You don't think I noticed the difference in you from before the meeting until after?"

Neal shrugged a little bit, shoulder paining him as he did so. "I guess."

"You guess," Peter repeated. "Neal, you weren't even acting like yourself before the meeting."

Neal paused. That was probably a fair statement, he considered.

"This case has been different, right?" Peter continued. He looked up from the menu. "Between you and me?"

Neal wasn't sure what Peter meant by that. So he hesitated in his response, but maintained eye contact. "Because I lost contact with you?" he asked carefully.

"Not exactly," Peter responded. "But partially. Usually when we're working on a case together, it's actually together… And when we do work together, even though we don't always approach things the same way, we do normally share the same tenacity to solve it."

"So… You mean I didn't this time?"

Peter let out a small laugh and then shook his head. "No, Neal. That's not what I mean. You did. You absolutely did." He paused and then returned his line of sight to the menu in front of him. "Neal, I like working with you because I like smart."

"Okay," Neal accepted. He looked down too and stared at the picture of a cheeseburger and fries on the menu. He suddenly didn't have much of an appetite.

"And I've told you that before," Peter persisted. "But it's not just about being smart, and you know that already too. It's about being honest with each other."

The waitress returned and placed two steaming mugs of coffee on the table in front of them, and then placed a small container of milk and a holder of sugar beside them. "Here you go."

"Thanks," Peter replied, looking up briefly.

With a smile, the waitress nodded. "No problem. I'll be back in a few for your order." She walked away.

"Neal," Peter began, eyeing the younger man across the table. Neal continued to stare at the menu. "I know you had something more to tell me."

Neal cleared his throat. The cheeseburger turned into two as his eyes lost focus briefly. Then he looked up, meeting Peter's eye, and said slowly, "About my dream."

"You said it wasn't a dream."

"I did…" Neal agreed cautiously.

"And you thought they were going to tell me something," Peter continued. "They, meaning the police."

Neal just continued to look back at him, pressing his lips together. Silence.

"But they didn't…" Peter persisted.

"Well, they _did_ ," Neal pointed out.

"But not what you thought they might," Peter persisted.

Neal fell silent again.

"What was it, Neal?" Peter raised his eyebrows. "What did you think they would tell me?"

Neal paused and then said with slight hesitation, "I already told you."

Peter shook his head gently. "Not really."

"I tried to," Neal replied.

"I know. And I should have waited and let you finish then," Peter responded. "But I didn't realize until you were clearly relieved by the meeting that there was obviously a lot more to it than what meets the eye. So I'm asking you to finish now."

Neal sighed slightly. The moment had come.

"The truth can't just be on your terms, Neal," Peter continued, tone slightly terse. "It needs to be unconditional. Telling me something only because you think I'll find out anyway? It doesn't work that way."

 _Sometimes it does_ , Neal thought to himself. But Peter was right. He'd had every intention before the meeting to tell the man everything. Reneging on that now did see a bit baseless. Even though he wanted to try to play that game. It wasn't going to work.

"And I think we've had this exact conversation before about honesty. So let me start, and I'll spark your memory. You mentioned a gas station, a woman, and a car…" Peter supplied. "And you thought that the police were going to tell me something."

Neal curled his hand around the hot coffee mug in front of him, sliding it closer. "If I tell you," he started, staring into the black liquid, "then you're going to be mad. I know that." He looked up, but not at Peter. He looked around the room, at the patrons sitting at the other tables. "You're going to react the way _you_ react."

"Put my reaction aside, Neal. There's no 'if' now," Peter replied. "We're going to sit here until you finish the story."

"I don't want an audience," Neal answered slowly. He shifted the coffee mug on the table again.

Peter rolled his eyes slightly. "I'm not going to do anything," he answered. He picked up his own mug of coffee, sipping at the hot liquid. "You've had a rough few days," he added after swallowing. "I don't know why I'd be mad. What is it?"

Neal sighed. He opened his mouth to speak, but the waitress returned at that moment, notepad in hand with a pen hovering above it. "You guys ready to order some food?" she asked with a smile.

"Tuna melt for me," Peter replied, unnerved by the interruption. "And a side of fries." He looked over at Neal as the woman jotted his order down.

"I'm really not hungry…" Neal started. He looked up and caught Peter's disapproving expression. "Peter, I'm really just–"

"Order something, will you?" Peter interjected, responding with slight exasperation.

Neal rolled his eyes slightly and then sighed. "Fine." His eyes scanned the barely reviewed menu. "I'll have a burger," he answered. He looked up. "Cheeseburger." It was the only thing he could think of, despite it not appearing appealing.

The waitress nodded. "American, cheddar, Swiss, or pepper jack?"

Neal paused. "Cheddar."

"Great." She smiled at them both. "Thanks. It'll be up soon."

Neal took a sip from his coffee mug as she walked away.

Predictably, Peter spoke up once they were alone again. "Go ahead. Talk."

"Talk…" Neal echoed. He placed the mug back down on the table and again wrapped his palm around it. It felt strange now, finding a place to start his story. But he knew he had to tell it. There was no manipulating the truth now. He owed that much to Peter. Yet he hadn't even spoken to him in detail about what had happened while he was Jason's captive. There was so much unspoken right now. "I'll start with this," he began. "We were right when we speculated that I'd think about running." He looked up then and met Peter's eye. "Because I did. Consider running."

Peter's face remained passive though there was a brief flash of something conveyed. "Alright," he replied very slowly, tone a little wary. He nodded slightly. "Okay. We talked about that." He paused. "So you thought about it, and then you didn't. You called me."

"I almost _didn't_ call you," Neal responded, surprising himself with the honesty. But he knew it had to be done.

"Almost," Peter repeated. "Fine. But then you did."

Neal nodded back and said, "Yeah. Eventually I did. But I was in the process of _not_ calling you. That's my point. I almost called Mozzie instead."

"Mozzie." Peter made a brief face, nearly a quick wince. "Dammit. You do need to call him, Neal. He's been asking about you, and I never got back to him."

"I'll call him," Neal replied, a little dismissively. Mozzie was the least of his concerns now. He cleared his throat and then continued. "I'm not being clear again. What I was trying to tell you before, Peter, is that in the process of not calling you, I was actually…" He paused, reconsidering his words. How to do this. If he was going to. And he needed to. "Let me back up. I need to tell this from start to finish."

"Where's it start?" Peter asked. "I'm still a little lost, Neal. What's this have to do with a gas station?"

"It starts when I finally got out of the woods," Neal answered. He paused again, initially thinking back to the house, when he first got his freedom. The events that followed. He suddenly recalled a detail. "I had Jason's wallet," he said slowly out loud, brow furrowing. "I forgot I had that. It had fifteen dollars."

"What?" Peter raised the mug to his mouth again as he also frowned. "Again, I'm not following."

"I don't know where it went…" Neal shook his head slightly, a little conflicted by this. He looked perplexed for a moment but dismissed it. It was a detail he'd have to consider later. "Anyway. Forget it." He returned to the story at hand. "Like I said, it starts when I got out the woods."

Peter said nothing. He just nodded, and he waited.

And with that, Neal started to unwind the story. Slowly at first, but he forced himself to simply talk. He had to.

He began with details on the context, on how he felt when he finally found the road, and when he spotted the gas station ahead. He didn't mince words this time, but he avoided looking at Peter, afraid that any change in his expression or response might cause him to reconsider the admission he knew was required. He stared at the coffee instead, delivering the sequence of events as though the black liquid was his only audience.

He described his thought process in the gas station. He explained how he canvased the space, and located the security cameras, and his tactic for avoiding them as he moved around the store. He described the woman in detail, and her children, and then added his continued thoughts about them, with a deep regret as to whether he had taken from them something they really needed.

He talked and talked.

Peter didn't say a word.

He was still talking when the food arrived. The waitress put the plates down and he conversed through it, knowing if he stopped, his rhythm would be interrupted and he might not be able to start again. He had gotten to the point about the car now, and described the way he looked at the vehicles on the street, and why he had chosen this one, and the thoughts that had gone through his mind. He mentioned his dream, and the way there were scenarios that realistically played out in his head, and then spoke about the moment he started to have doubts.

He spoke about the news that morning, how he had heard the headline and became alarmed. Then he went back and explained that he'd tried in the evening to tell him, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He began to describe how he felt at the office, and what he thought the meeting would be about.

Then he went silent. His throat felt dry. All of the words were out.

Peter was silent too. Neal slowly raised his eyes, first glancing across the untouched plates of food, and slowly meeting Peter's eye. The man's look was a combination of things. His brow was furrowed, his eyes were narrowed just slightly, and his lips were a thin pressed line.

"I'm sorry, Peter," Neal said next. He didn't know what else to say. "And whatever you want to do, I get it, and I'll take it. I can't go back in time, and in the end I chose to call you, but I'm sorry. I'm sorry I almost didn't."

A pause of silence passed between them.

"Jesus Christ, Neal," Peter finally responded. He raised his hand to his jaw, rubbing at his jawline with a perplexed look. "What the hell were you thinking…? I mean, you just told me exactly what you were thinking, I know, but… Jesus."

"I know. I'm sorry," Neal said again. "And I mean it." He didn't feel better from the admission. He didn't know how to decipher Peter's reaction. He expected anger. He expected to be rejected. But he didn't know what to do after that.

"You broke the law," Peter said, tone stiff. "Neal, do you understand if you got caught—"

"I know," Neal interjected. "I know, Peter." He ran a hand through his hair, fidgeting slightly. His body ached, and he deserved it. "It's all the things I said I might _think_ about doing but _not_ do. And then I did it."

"But… why?" Peter asked. He shook his head. "Why, Neal?"

"I knew you'd ask me that. And even though I thought about it, I don't have a good answer," Neal admitted earnestly, shrugging a big dejectedly despite the sharp pain it caused. "I didn't even know where I'd go. I didn't even think through any of that, and… And I don't know. Maybe I thought Mozzie would know. In the moment it seemed to be the right thing to do, and then I realized it wasn't."

"Remember what I just said about being smart?" Peter asked, tone a bit rigid. "Well, that was stupid. That was very stupid, Neal."

"I know."

"Why wouldn't you just call me? Why not just ask the gas station if you could use their phone? Why, Neal? Instead of pursuing this half-baked, harebrained idea to –"

"I don't know what you want me to say," Neal interrupted, tone rising slightly. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't have any good answers. Okay?"

"Okay? Okay, Neal? No. It's not. God dammit," Peter responded, leaning back his own seat, leaning hard against the back of the booth. "You could literally be in jail right now, do you understand that?"

Neal nodded. He did. He knew that. He'd expected it. "I know…"

"You _don't_ know," Peter retorted, snapping slightly. He gave him an icy look. "You don't goddamn know. You realize how many times I've put my neck out for you? Defended you? Even when I shouldn't have? And then you risk _everything_ in a hasty, idiotic moment." His voice trailed off, frustration lacing the words. "I mean, come on. Dammit, Neal."

"If you have to tell them," Neal responded, trying to keep up with the reaction, which he was absorbing with conflicted feelings, and continued with, "then I understand. It's my fault. I deserve it. I'm sorry I put you in this position, Peter. And if we have to end things, I get that too. I do. But I am sorry. I didn't think and—"

"Stop, Neal. Just stop." Peter shook his head, sighing out loud. "Just stop for a minute." He let out a deep, frustrated breath. "Jesus Christ."

Neal felt an instinct to apologize again. But it was futile. The apology was just words. So he stayed silent. He stared at his coffee. The black liquid stared back. He didn't know how he had expected Peter really to react. His stomach was in knots, not knowing where this was going next. But the truth was out.

"I honestly don't know what to say to you," Peter said next. "I'm…" He shook his head, as though at a true loss of words. "I'm just kind of surprised, Neal. Really. This isn't what I expected. And I don't know what the hell I expected you to tell me after all this, but… Not that, Neal. Not what you just told me."

Neal hesitated, but then asked tentatively, "So what happens now?"

"What happens?" Peter repeated, looking at him a little incredulously.

"If you end our agreement," Neal started, tone a little wary, "then I have to go back to prison, but if—"

"Stop it," Peter replied. He waved one hand in the air, dismissively, brow furrowing. "Stop. I'm not putting you back in prison." He ran a hand over his jaw again.

"But I broke the law," Neal objected.

"You think I'm ignoring that?" Peter retorted, raising his eyebrows. His tone grew a little bit louder. "That's loud and clear, Neal. But you are not going back to prison. Understand me? So just stop with that."

Neal felt some of his tenseness alleviate at that comment, despite Peter's gruff tone. But he was slightly perplexed at the response. In committing these crimes, he was in breech of his agreement with the Bureau. Peter's insistence was a bit counterintuitive.

"You deserve to be punished," Peter continued, tone aggravated, "and trust me, I'm going to punish you. I just don't know how yet."

Neal's stomach turned slightly. "But I didn't run," he pointed out slowly. "I called you."

"Fortunately you did," Peter responded, sighing once again in irritation. "And when you did, by the way, do you even realize the shape you were in?" He paused, as though waiting for a response. "Hey," he said when none came. "Look at me." He waited, and then stressed his name. " _Neal._ "

Neal shuddered slightly at the tone but raised his eyes, meeting his handler's stare. The look was direct and serious. He waited.

"Do you realize the shape you were in?" Peter persisted, repeating the question.

Neal paused, and then slowly replied, "I mean, I had been shot, but it wasn't a big—"

"Not a big deal?" Peter interjected. "Think again, Neal. You were bleeding, dehydrated, and quite honestly delirious. You could barely stand. You wouldn't have made it another block. Not a big deal?"

"I…" Neal trailed off and then just nodded. "I wasn't thinking, Peter."

"Damn right you weren't…" Peter retorted. "And honestly, that's the only thing keeping me from coming across the table right now, Neal. That you weren't in a state of mind to think. You were coming out of an unprecedented seventy two hours in captivity, which to be fair we haven't even talked about and I don't even know the full extent of and—"

"Don't defend me," Neal replied, shaking his head.

"Defend? Oh, listen to me when I say I'm not," Peter replied, scoffing slightly at the comment. "I'm not defending an ounce of it. But what I am considering is that you weren't in a normal state of mind."

"I'll never do it again, Peter."

"You'll never be able to, Neal. In fact, I don't know if you're ever going off anklet again," Peter replied stiffly.

Neal's jaw dropped slightly at that, but then he closed his mouth and stayed quiet. He wasn't in a position to argue. He knew from experience not to test that comment now.

"I honestly don't know why you have to play with fire…" Peter muttered. "Constantly." He exhaled slowly. "How'd I start this conversation, Neal?" he asked. "And no, do not look away. Hey. Look at me."

Neal returned his straying eye contact to Peter reluctantly.

"How'd I start this conversation?" Peter repeated.

"You told me to talk," Neal stated.

"No." Peter's tone was slightly impatient. "Try again. That's not how I started it."

Neal paused and then hesitated. "I… I don't know," he admitted.

"I told you I liked working with you," Peter replied, tone solemn. "Understand?"

Neal didn't. "And now you don't…" he said slowly.

"No, Neal. Did I say that?" Peter replied stiffly. He shook his head slightly. "Neal, we've talked so many times what it means for you to keep this agreement. This agreement that I _like_."

Neal nodded. "I know." Then he added. "I _really_ like it."

"I know," Peter replied, tone softening slightly. He paused, shifting in his seat. "I know, Neal." He exhaled again. "Look, I need to process this, Neal. Honestly. I need to think about it."

"Okay…" Neal agreed. He didn't know what to expect. He was open to whatever Peter told him. "What happens now…?"

Peter sighed, and then he took a deep breath. He looked a little conflicted, but then responded. "First we eat," he said. "And that's _we_ , Neal."

Neal viewed the burger in front of him disinterestedly but didn't argue. "And then what?" he asked.

"Then we're going to go back to the office. You're going to give the police your statement. And you're going to leave out every God damn thing you just told me." Peter's tone was a bit hard. He paused, eyeing Neal carefully, and then softened his tone. "You understand me?"

Neal nodded. "Yes."

Peter eyed him for a moment, expression wary, and then reached for a french fry. "Dammit, Neal," he muttered.

Neal frowned and squirmed slightly, uneasiness remaining.


	39. Chapter 39

Peter felt conflicted. It was a mix of anger, disappointment, confusion, betrayal, and sadness. And other feelings he just couldn't get around to identifying.

The thought that Neal would, in an untethered moment, act on an instinct to run, to act on his own accord, to break ties… It felt like a punch in the gut.

The actions themselves, and what they could (might still?) have resulted in, made Peter furious. This was the type of behavior that was mentioned, almost tauntingly, as a risk he would have to take when he first considered even taking on this kid and this deal. He still recalled the way Hughes had looked at him, reminded him of the career crippling possibilities that this could all end with, urging him to reconsider.

Peter had been convinced, not unwaveringly, but convinced nonetheless, that it would work. Between the anklet monitor, a forced leash in itself, and Peter's incessant guidance, in his mind it could all work out. There was always something in those blue eyes that reminded him that Neal knew right and wrong. A conman, an opportunist, someone generally looking out for himself, yes. But deep down, he knew good, and was good, and Peter could see that and hear it when he worked with him. He just needed strict boundaries.

But now… Those sentiments weren't enough. Something like this could change everything.

Trust. This whole relationship came down to trust.

He reminded himself of the anklet itself. The wireless restraint. Would Neal run without it on a general basis? He didn't know for certain. He wanted to think no, but knew that was naïve. So he didn't want to think about it. Fortunately the requirement of the anklet allowed him not have to for the most part, though his mind went to the worst scenario any time Neal came close to stepping near the edge of his radius or the times he had actually tampered with the anklet. El criticized that pessimistic response. _Neal usually has his reasons_ , she would say. _But if you expect him to be bad, he will be._

This gave him every right to go to that worst scenario. While not following through with it, Neal had gone there. He'd made the first step, and that was all that mattered.

But there was also the manner of Neal's admission; though describing acts that were unexpected, unlawful, and unprecedented, Peter had to acknowledge that it was delivered with raw honesty. As Neal described what he had done, his words were flowing with rampant divulgence of what he _thought_ and how he _felt._ Insight rarely conveyed. Almost never. This was Neal actually speaking to him. It wasn't Willy or some other cover. It wasn't even typical Neal with fortresses built around him with moats of deception and distraction. This was raw Neal.

Thoughts multiplying, anger ebbing and flowing, he studied the younger man now as he sipped on his coffee, working his jaw. Neal had barely touched his food, but was chewing on a fry with his eyes cast downward on the plate, unblinking as though deep in thought. He hadn't looked up at all in the last couple of minutes, at least that Peter had caught in his own brief glances across the table.

At the moment, Neal looked every bit a mix of true guilt and remorse. He'd avoided eye contact since Peter had 'ended' the discussion, with his closing comments simply cursing at him, and neither had offered any further comments. Now Neal simply appeared like a forlorn child weighing his future on the chair outside the principal's office.

Peter didn't know why the exceedingly troubled look on Neal's face was somewhat a relief to him. He couldn't tell if it actually made him feel any better – his anger was too strong at the moment – but there was a sense of satisfaction from seeing the younger man's current temperament. There were times when Neal behaved badly yet subsequently when addressed didn't even understand the issue. Peter could think of many examples where he'd gone awry and got caught, only to then roll his eyes, offer a quick quip or a charming smile, and generally try to downplay or dismiss it. There was none of that this time. This time, it was clear that Neal recognized the impact of his wrongdoing. And was sorry about it. And while having postponed the delivery of the truth, also seemed to understand the importance of admitting to it.

He hadn't offered any excuses either. There had been no 'buts' or trying to downplay what he'd done. He hadn't tried to coerce Peter into thinking about it any certain way. It had just been the facts. He had owned up to it with repeated apology. Peter appreciated there was merit in that, but it didn't change the fact of what he'd done.

In the last twenty-four hours, Peter had considered Neal the victim. Injured, clearly troubled, and not himself. Now, he realized the underlying root of that out of character behavior and distraction extended beyond just his physical injuries.

So what now? Neal had asked him twice, and would probably ask again, but Peter didn't know. He felt a tremendous weight on himself to decide. There had to be implications. This was a serious offense. And Neal seemingly expected consequences too. He had referenced 'having to tell' others, and ending their arrangement, and prison… Further pointing to Neal's understanding of the seriousness of the offense. And while Peter immediately refuted those possibilities, he also knew he couldn't let him think that this type of thing went unanswered.

Prison? He dismissed that thought. He couldn't even consider it. He couldn't bring himself to do that. When they had first started this agreement, there were times Peter was certain it would be short-lived, particularly once Neal proved to be incessantly mischievous. Now that short-lived sentiment wasn't the case. They were too far invested at this point. Yet while that crossed his mind, so did the reminder that Neal had _broken the law_ in this scenario... He hadn't run but he had _committed crimes_.

The innate respect for the law reeled inside Peter. Crimes didn't go unpunished. And this wouldn't. It could not. But Peter preferred to be the one to deal with it, despite the nagging feeling that it was unorthodox. His conscience insisted he go by the book. But as angry as he was, as furious as he felt, he struggled with letting someone else deal with it. He couldn't fathom just 'turning' Neal over to someone else. Neal was his responsibility.

And their arrangement? Neal had broken a good faith agreement once he was free… He had literally gone against the agreement they had signed. He had broken the law. Peter resisted the urge to run his hands over his face. Mind racing, he felt he couldn't bring himself to 'end' their arrangement over this, even as angry as he felt. After all, Neal hadn't run. He called him. But despite that one good decision in the end, he had still committed crimes.

He watched Neal sullenly push a fry around his plate, as he tried to decide what to do next. What was he going to tell him – that things would just continue status quo? After this? He knew he couldn't just tell him that. Something had to happen, and Neal had to fear the worst. Especially while Peter was still trying to figure out how to proceed.

Almost stepping into Caffrey territory, Peter tried to tell himself that he was possibly missing something. Maybe there was another angle to this. Maybe it wasn't so black and white. His anger told him it was exactly that, but his fondness for Neal was also causing him to question everything before he made a definitive stance on the matter.

"Neal," Peter spoke.

Neal paused, fry forgotten but remaining between his fingers. He continued to stare at the plate a few seconds longer, and then slowly looked up, meeting Peter's eyes with an expression that was a mix of apprehension and uneasiness. "Peter," he said slowly, voice even but slightly tentative.

Peter stared into the deep blue eyes. "When you did all this," he started, wondering if it was wise to continue this discussion here, or even worth asking these questions, "did you think the only option was to run? Did you realize you could just make a call? I mean, you were already running from the house."

Neal looked as though he was registering the question and trying to process it. He frowned slightly. "Why are you asking me that?"

"I'm trying to understand what sort of state of mind you were in."

"State of mind?" Neal looked down at his plate again, dragging the abused fry through a small blob of ketchup. "But why ask me that?"

"Why not?"

Neal spread the red condiment across the plate further. "Because that kind of question is… I mean, don't you think I could just lie?"

Peter shook his head slightly, feeling a resurgence of anger, a little surprised by the response. He exhaled slowly, then taking a deep breath. "Neal," he said his name stiffly. "Reminding me you could lie, and do lie, is not helping you in this situation."

"But I'm _not_ lying." Neal looked up again. He dropped the fry and pushed the plate a few inches away. "That's my point. I never lie to you."

"So you knew you could call me but—"

"I thought I made that pretty clear," Neal replied, interrupting with a little bit of frustration. "You're asking me if I knew if I could make a phone call when I had literally just bought a prepaid phone, Peter. What do you think the answer is?"

"So no excuse."

"No," Neal answered, voice hitching slightly. "You know that. You want me to make up one?"

"No," Peter replied. "No, Neal." He sighed, shaking his head. "Absolutely not." He picked up his coffee again, once more considering the fact Neal was not even remotely trying to defend himself or get out of whatever he had coming. Where the slightly insolent response would usually infuriate him, this time he realized it didn't. "Not at all. I get it."

"Get what?" Neal replied, tone a bit dejected and uncertain. He stared across the table at him.

Peter hesitated in his response. He reviewed Neal again briefly and then his plate. He nodded towards the intact burger. "Never mind. Eat part of that," he told him. "Then we'll go."

Neal looked a bit uncertain but simply nodded.

Peter knew he had the facts in front of him. This time there was no cover story, no false alibi, no pretense. Many times he had to figure out what double meaning Neal's words might actually have. This time there was none of that.

He watched Neal pick up and then, after a brief pause, put down the disregarded burger again. Peter then stared at his own half eaten sandwich, already knowing he wasn't going to insist Neal eat anything, even if the fourth request went unanswered.

He instead wondered what the hell to do next.

* * *

Diana noticed a change in her boss and colleague almost immediately upon their return to the office.

They'd been gone about an hour, and she'd been busy herself in the meantime. She spent more than a third of the time on the phone with Jones, filling him in on what was going on, including the recent updates on the case, as well as throwing out some of the specific new details she wanted him to look into. After that she had walked over to find Agnes and formally thank her for the support. She was, after all, the one that had helped to pinpoint the location of the house. They chatted for a little bit, exchanging their backgrounds and experience in the Bureau, before Agnes got a phone call that required them to end the conversation.

After that, Diana was back in the bullpen area, choosing a seat and combing through one of the new files that had been provided to them from Val's team with the latest update in further detail. She was just reading more about the previous allegations that had been tried against their newly identified 'dirty cop' when the two men returned to the office.

"Hey, guys," she greeted as she looked up to catch them approaching. She gestured at the file in front of her. "Man, you ought to read some of this stuff. Talk about juicy."

"Maybe later," Peter responded, giving a small shake of his head.

It was then Diana noticed the change in demeanor of the two of them. She dismissed her focus on the case file and instead studied them. Peter looked tired, his brow creased as though troubled or deep in thought over something. Neal, on the other hand, looked a bit uneasy and stiff. He seemed to stand at a distance from them, his eyes focused on a distant wall of the room. His expression was a bit more brooding.

"How was lunch…?" she asked cautiously, curious as to what could have possibly transpired to result in this altered mood. It had only been about an hour. She looked back from Neal to Peter, catching her boss's eye.

"It was fine," Peter responded, tone a little gruff. He cleared his throat, as though trying to snap out of whatever funk he was in. "Look, I gotta check in with Val to see who Neal can give his statement to." He paused, eyes flitting over to the younger man for a moment, looking as though he considered saying something else.

Meanwhile, Neal seemed not to notice the comment or the attention and said nothing, remaining still with his attention elsewhere.

Peter returned his eyes to Diana. "I'll be back in a minute." Then he said stiffly, "No one go anywhere," as though it was a broad instruction. Diana was fairly sure it was directed at Neal, as he again cast a look his way before walking off.

Diana watched Peter walk away and frowned; she was a little puzzled by the rigidity of her boss. They were at the end of this case, and the charges were racking up by the minute. This was huge. Hughes was going to be thrilled. It was a case for the books. Neal had some healing to do, but all in all would be fine. What wasn't there to be relieved and even excited about? This evidence was all certain to stick, and they were coming to the point of closure, having been nothing but successful.

Diana turned in her seat to view Neal again. She followed his gaze. His attention was no longer elsewhere. It was on Peter in the distance. "So where'd you go, Neal?" she asked, opting for polite conversation while she mulled over what she might be missing.

Neal turned then, meeting her eye. His face was passive but he asked, "Where'd I go when?" with a little bit a suspicion behind the question.

She rolled her eyes a bit. "Just now, genius," she replied. "For lunch."

"Oh. We went to that diner," Neal responded, a little distractedly. His eyes returned to Peter across the room again. He was disappearing into Val's office.

"Any good?"

"Not really," Neal responded, tone a little sour.

Bad food was the reason for their moods? Diana thought to herself, a little skeptically. She doubted it, but kept the light chitchat going regardless. "Cuisine not up to your refined standards, Caffrey?" she asked teasingly. "I guess there were no Bloody Mary's then either, huh?"

"Not one in sight," came the glib response. Neal then returned his eyes to her and gave her a small smirk. "I'd have to check the Zagat rating to see whether I'm in the minority here, but the whole atmosphere was just a little… subpar for my liking."

"Ouch," she responded with a small smile. "And the jury is in… So, did the boss say anything about going home?"

She watched him hesitate for a brief moment, the smirk faltering just slightly, before he replied, "When I asked him before he said maybe. But that was before we ate."

She sighed. "Well, I don't see why we'd need to stick around any longer. We should be able to hammer this out at home, don't you think?"

"I don't know," Neal answered.

"Don't know?" she echoed. She frowned, unconvinced. "Why not? Is there something that I'm missing?"

"I just _don't_ know," Neal replied. "Just being honest."

She was about to respond, feeling the answer was a little cryptic, when she saw his expression change slightly, his eyes leaving hers to look beyond her again. She turned her head and saw Peter returning, same somewhat vexed expression on his face. He looked deep in thought yet focused at the same time. She realized something was up, and wasn't sure if she was going to find out or whether she should dare to ask. She considered whether it was something between Peter and Neal, and not something to do with the case.

She glanced back at Neal, who still lingered a few feet away from them. His face gave nothing away other than looking tightlipped again.

"Neal," Peter spoke as he reached them, glancing at Diana only briefly before settling his eyes on their CI. "Come here."

Neal seemed deeply rooted to his position for a moment, locking eyes with Peter, but then without a word took slow but intentional steps over to close the gap between them. Diana watched them quizzically from her seat at the desk beside them.

"You see the two agents over there?" Peter asked, raising his arm to point in the direction just past Val's office. There stood two of the suited men from the earlier conference room discussion, talking to each other and not looking in their direction.

Neal peered past Peter's shoulder, spotting the two. "Yeah," he responded slowly.

"That's Agents Thomas and Agent Riley," Peter continued. "They work for Val. And they're waiting for you. Head over there and—"

Neal interjected, "But—"

"No buts," Peter cut in. "Head over there," he repeated, re-emphasizing the words. "And listen to what they tell you."

Neal let out a sigh. "Peter…" he started again.

Diana watched the exchange, slightly curious as to why Neal was somewhat hesitant to go talk to Val's team, unless he was unwilling to give a statement at all. Had something changed?

Meanwhile, Peter shook his head, taking a step closer to him. "Just go, Neal, and don't keep them waiting. I'm right behind you. I just need a minute. You don't even have to start talking until I'm there."

Neal leaned in a little closer to Peter, and then stated in a low tone. "What about a lawyer?" he asked.

Diana initially frowned at the question, which seemed to be asked earnestly and not in jest, but then almost chuckled to herself. She supposed it was somewhat typical that an ex-conman might question having legal representation before giving any sort of statement to federal authorities.

Peter's response indicated he didn't see the same humor in the response. "You don't need a lawyer," he told him firmly. "You remember what I told you?"

"Yeah," Neal responded. His brow furrowed just slightly but he nodded.

"Good. Then go," Peter responded. Taking Neal by his good arm and turning him towards the direction he was meant to approach, he gave him a slight nudge and a swat to his backside, like a coach would sending a player off to return to the game after a pep talk.

As Neal walked away, Peter let out a deep breath and moved to take a seat behind a desk a few feet from Diana.

"He alright? I thought he loved having people hear him talk," Diana remarked a bit cynically. She glanced back at her boss, whose eyes still remained trained to the far side of the room as Neal approached the two other agents, moving like molasses.

"What can I say… He's full of surprises this week," Peter responded, tone laced with dry sarcasm. He turned his head back towards her. "Though I wouldn't say the Feds are his favorite audience, Diana."

"Okay, that's probably true," she admitted as she observed her boss. Peter seemed to be drained. It was in his posture, his furrowed brow, and his overall presence, as though now sitting, his body was allowing a moment of exhaustion. Without trying to pry, Diana continued, "Neal said lunch wasn't great?"

Peter looked over at that, meeting Diana's eyes with an inquisitive look and a slight frown. "Did he?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Not in those exact words. He said something about the atmosphere."

"Really…" Peter responded. He looked thoughtful. "What else did he say?"

"Not much," she admitted. "He said he wasn't sure if we could go back to New York today. What do you think, Peter?"

"I think we should try," he said slowly.

She nodded. "Okay, good. I mean, no offense to Vermont, but now that this case is wrapped up, I'm looking for a little less maple and a little more grit, if you know what I mean."

He nodded, eyes back on Neal, who was now exchanging a few words with the two agents across the room. "I do…"

"So this case file," Diana began, clearing her throat as she referenced the file she'd been looking at when the two had returned. She looked down at it, and the page it was turned to. "This guy's a scumbag. You should take a look at some of this stuff. I mean… Here, look at this page…" She picked up the folder and extended it towards him. "Turns out last Thanksgiving—"

"Diana," Peter interrupted, turning his head back to view her. He smiled at her and shook his head. "I will. But I really need to go over there with Neal in a minute. But thank you. I swear, you're the one stable thing in this case."

She lowered the folder back to her desk, frowning slightly at the comment. "Thanks, I guess…" she answered. "Though I'd say given the events of the last day, relative stability isn't saying much."

"Very true words," he acknowledged with a nod and a small smile. He slowly got to his feet. "I don't know how long this will take," he admitted, looking back over to the far side of the room and catching the sight of Neal and the two agents starting to walk away. "But I don't want them taking his statement without me."

"Then why didn't you just go with him to begin with?" Diana asked curiously with a slight frown.

Peter raised his hands to rub at his temples. "Honestly?" he answered. He dropped his hands to his side. "Honestly, Diana, I just needed to take a minute away from him and sit."

Her frown deepened. "Why?" she asked. "What'd he do?" And at a diner? she thought silently.

"You don't want to know," Peter answered, tone a bit ambiguous but hinting at frustration. "Like I said, he's full of surprises."

Curiosity piqued, she disagreed with his statement. She did want to know. Whatever it was seemed to be weighing on them now.

As Peter started to take a step away, she spoke up again, "Any harm if I listen in on the statement?"

Peter turned slightly and paused, as though considering it. Then he shrugged and nodded. "Sure…" he replied. "After all, it'll be on record… Might as well hear it first hand…"

* * *

Neal followed Thomas and Riley, a little perturbed that Peter had just sent him over to them without much of a discussion at all. Never mind he hadn't accompanied him. Neal hadn't expected that; he thought once back at the office, that Peter would stay with him. Not that he _needed_ him. Especially now that Peter was a bit cold and clearly disappointed. But he certainly didn't need an escort to simply give a statement. He could speak on his own. He'd just thought that after the conversation at the diner, after explaining his uncertainty about what they might have known, considering the looming fact that they still might find out… that maybe Peter would come along.

He questioned his need to even give a statement, similar to how he had earlier. If the case was such a grand slam, then his own statement would really do nothing more than potentially put him in a situation where he not only would be documented in the case as more than just an undercover participant, but as a victim who might have to testify. And he could compromise himself if he wasn't careful in the way he discussed finally being found.

Moreover, bothering him was the feeling he'd kind of just been 'handed over' for it as well.

He knew Peter was mad. Beyond mad. And he had no idea what was coming next. There were clearly things that were a 'check the box' to close out the case; this was one of them. And what happened after that? If he was lucky enough that no one did tie him to the car or anything else, and then they finally went home, then what? Peter had dismissed some of the more severe consequences that Neal had fathomed, such as losing the deal and going back to prison, but he'd also been clear that there would be some sort of punishment.

"You can take a seat," Agent Thomas or Riley told him. Granted he hadn't really listened to them when they had introduced themselves, mind weighed down by other thoughts until he snapped out of it and was able to shake their hands. He realized now that not listening to their names had been a mistake. It was important to know someone's name.

He also knew he had to stop letting his mind sift through other thoughts, as worrisome and looming as they were, and had to stay in the moment.

The room they'd led him into clearly looked like an interview, or interrogation, room. They were being friendly enough, and it wasn't like he was formally accused of anything or handcuffed or even remotely close – hell, they just wanted his statement— but there was something about the way the door closed behind them, heavily clanking shut, that forced a chill down his spine.

He quickly glanced around the room, then examined the table and chairs, and then chose one. He moved towards it, a folding chair, and took a seat, wincing at the movement as he did so and wondering how long it would take his ribs to repair themselves. Meanwhile he glanced around the room once again, taking in a mirrored wall as the anomaly versus the other three bare white walls, with the exception of the clock on one of them. He smirked slightly as he turned his head to view it.

"What's so funny?" Agent Thomas or Riley asked. They took a seat at the table, placing a small notebook in front of them.

Neal nodded towards the device on the wall. "The clock," he said, smiling. "Normally, you'd have whoever you're talking to _face_ the clock. But you're the one actually facing it."

Thomas or Riley didn't look so amused.

The other Thomas or Riley sat down as well. He folded his hands in front of him on the table. "Neal," he spoke. "You've not been read any rights, but I'm sure you're aware of them." As Neal nodded, he continued. "You've also not signed anything. You've agreed to offer a witness statement to further help with supporting evidence towards this case. You'll be recorded. Any issues?"

"None," Neal responded. He considered trying to buy some time. Peter had told him he didn't have to talk until he was there. But he felt a little silly to point that out. He wasn't a child. He didn't need to have him there.

But why wasn't Peter there? He knew he was angry, but…

Suddenly his palms sweated. What if Val had found out the full truth while they were gone? Peter had just spoken to her. What if these agents knew? What if that's what they were going to ask him about? Maybe this wasn't just a statement. Is that why Peter wasn't there? He really had just handed him over?

He forced himself to be calm. He leaned back in his chair, keeping his jaw stiff and posture assured. His shoulder throbbed, and he dismissed it.

"So, Neal," the other Thomas or Riley began. "You can let us know where you want to start. The Bureau has you pretty well documented up until you hit Burlington. So why don't we start from somewhere around there? But first, we wanted to get a better sense of who you were representing while you were here."

"Representing?" Neal echoed. "I was – I am representing the FBI."

"I mean in terms of your persona," Thomas or Riley replied. "You were clearly utilizing an alias of yours by the name of Willy. Do you want to give us a little more history about that alias to set the stage for us here? Maybe tell us a little bit about what Willy had done previously?"

Neal reviewed the two men briefly and shifted slightly in his seat despite the discomfort. Keeping his gaze at them steady, he replied, "I don't really see how that's relevant to the case at hand."

"It is," Thomas or Reilly replied, a little insistently. "Willy is the one who arrived in Burlington. So we just want to know a little more detail about his history."

Neal cleared his throat before responding further. "I still don't see the relevance," he pointed out again. He hesitated briefly before saying, "But I think Peter was going to be here and—"

"I'm here, Neal," came the voice through the speaker in the room. "And you're right, it's not relevant. You don't have to answer that. And, Agents, I thought we were here to get Neal's take on the last three days, and not to play twenty questions?"

While Thomas and Riley exchanged looks with each other across the table, Neal's eyes moved to look at the mirrored wall, which he'd known from the beginning was a two-way mirror. He now knew Peter sat behind it, which he supposed made sense given the size of the room.

Despite his uneasiness at Peter's underlying current opinion of him, he felt a little relief at the quick defense that came through over the speaker. At least for now, Peter was with him.

"Neal, start with the post office," Peter encouraged over the speaker. "What happened after you closed in your watch and phone in the PO Box?"

* * *

Peter watched through the glass, seated in a room parallel to the interrogation room with Diana beside him. He knew that Neal couldn't see him, but the way the piercing blue eyes somehow found him when Neal turned his head to look at the mirrored wall made him frown slightly. He felt like they were making eye contact, but knew that it was impossible. Despite this, and the fact the other agents seemed less than pleased at his presence, even invisible behind a wall, he quickly commandeered the direction of the discussion. Despite everything going on, he wasn't about to let them take any direction in this room other than listening. And judging by their initial question, without him present, they would have otherwise had other plans, despite his discussion with Val about just that.

He'd reached the room with Diana in time to observe the agents and Neal enter their own room. Unlike his uneasiness at the diner, Neal seemed at ease with the two agents, whether forced or not. Peter noticed that immediately when the younger man chose a seat in the room that someone being questioned would never be permitted to sit in. That was deliberate. Similarly, when he made the teasing remark about the location of the clock. Confident, calculating Caffrey was back. And while Peter watched this with careful wariness, he also knew it was probably for the better.

Once Peter directed him where to start the statement, Neal had acquiesced and was off and talking.

The two agents listened attentively, one with a pen hovered above an open notebook, though he didn't make any marks on the page.

Neal spoke fluidly, but it was though he was describing a movie that he had watched or a book he had read. The narrative, detailed and matter-of-fact, had none of the emotion that had been present during the disclosure at the diner. Neal never commented on how he felt, or what he was thinking during that particular moment, or what he considered it might mean for later. It was absent of all of the additional texture that he had provided to Peter in discussing the events after his escape from captivity.

While considering this change in approach, Peter listened intently. He himself did not know what had happened over the last three days before the events Neal had told him earlier and was eager to find out. He wanted to see whether any of it could possibly explain or give insight into why Neal might have later run further than he had to. And beyond that, he wanted to know what the hell had happened between him and Jason.

As Neal spoke, a few times one of the agents cut in, starting to ask a question, and Neal simply looked across the table at them and replied self-assuredly, "I'll get to that," before continuing at his own pace.

Peter was glad to see that. Neal had control of the room.

Meanwhile, he made a chronology in his head of the events, taking mental notes as Neal spoke.

He knew it was recorded, and knew he could – and would – listen to this account again at a later time. But he found himself focused on understanding the last few days as much as he could now.

The scene in the kitchen, when Neal had been taken by surprise, was hard to listen to but not unpredicted. He knew that there was a point after the post office where something like that had happened. Neal wouldn't have voluntarily offered to be held captive.

The description of waking in darkness made Peter uneasy. Neal described it without any hint of emotion in his voice, but Peter could only imagine himself what it would have been like to be in the kitchen at one moment, allegedly among 'peers' and then alone in a dark basement the next, removed of most of your belongings.

Neal accounted for his conversations with Jason with detail and somewhat ease, almost mechanically as though he was reading from a script. Peter knew that Neal had an incredible memory, sometimes too accurate for his own good, but this was as though he was relying on those recollections verbatim without much processing of it.

He discussed a little bit of the obvious preparation. He talked a bit about the styles of paint, and the need to have aged pigments and different aspects of legitimacy if these paintings were ever going to pass a test for authenticity. He talked about the length it took certain paints to dry, and then seemingly sensing the disinterest in those details from the agents in front of him, continued to describe the more tactical events of the time in the room.

As Peter listened, a few of the descriptions made him frustrated. Beyond the darkness in the room for hours at a time, some of the conversations seemed to allude to threats. Neal briefly discussed not ever knowing what time it was, and having a hard time deciding whether it was even daytime or night time. How because of that, time of day was the first question he usually asked whenever Jason came back.

"That sounds pretty messed up…" Diana mused softly from beside him.

Peter glanced at her briefly. He had forgotten she was beside him. He then refocused on Neal.

He was now discussing how he wouldn't go into detail on describing the paintings because other than a different style, material, and medium, his general process was the same in order to get it done. He repeated the order of the artists routinely, names of the painters rolling off his tongue easily.

"Klint. Magritte. Rubens. Corot. Malevich," Neal stated. "Remington." He shifted in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't get to the last one." He then scoffed. "I actually didn't even finish the second to last."

"We found a couple of those in the house," one agent responded.

The other agent then chimed in. "You haven't mentioned any violence, Neal," he stated simply. "You've discussed the setting, what you were asked to do, and the process. Clearly they only had this use for you, and we understand that. But based on your hospital records, there was some physical coercion involved as well."

Neal pressed his lips together briefly, assessing the question as he looked across the table at the agent. "I don't know if I'd call it _coercion_ ," he said a little stiffly. "I'd call it maybe a difference in opinion."

"So there wasn't any coercion?" the agent responded. "You were complicit in what they wanted you to do?"

Neal paused. "My whole role was to do what they needed to do," he responded, a little caustic. "I didn't agree with their tactic, but I wasn't going to not provide the paintings."

"So you did what he told you. Then why was he was violent?"

Neal opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again. He hesitated in talking again before replying, "I did what he said, but I also tried to manipulate him. I mean…" he trailed off slightly. "Maybe it was the way I spoke to him. And sometimes I wasn't painting when he came back. It was hours and hours so…"

"It's not relevant," Peter interjected, pressing the button on their side that allowed his voice to be transmitted into the other room. While he was curious too, and wanted to understand further these details, they weren't necessarily pertinent at this time, not with this audience. He sensed the hesitation in Neal's response to the question and wanted to move on. "Neal," he said, keeping his tone even. "Just comment on whether he was violent. You don't have to conjecture why." He released the button and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"He was violent at times," Neal responded simply. He glanced towards the mirrored wall but then returned his focus to the agents sitting in front of him. "Is that sufficient?"

"Okay, fine. Continue," the agent replied simply with a shrug.

Neal sighed and then slowly started speaking again.

Peter found himself leaning forward a bit as Neal continued to provide his account. He was now getting to the part where he knew he had to somehow get in touch with the feds in order to make sure the case progressed and he was going to get out of here. This is where he knew things then moved quickly between then and now.

"I knew I only had one or two paintings left," Neal explained. "Beyond not wanting to be there any longer, and the fact that I wasn't able to get anyone proof of this unless I could get contact, I also realized that once we finished, I didn't know what would happen to me."

"Why? You don't think you could just finish, and then he'd let you go?" the agent asked.

Neal flashed him a look of contempt. "Would _you_ let me go, in that situation?"

"I don't know." The agent shrugged casually. "Perhaps you could provide services for them in the future. Didn't you work for him before?"

"Yes, but you don't get it." Neal shook his head his head briefly. "It doesn't work that way. Not in this business. You don't just let that many loose ends walk away from this kind of job."

"Okay, fine… So what'd you do next?"

Neal took a small breath and then continued.

Again the scene played out with language as though Neal were describing a transcript himself. He articulated his technique to get the phone from Jason, including feigning that he wasn't feeling well. He went through the next events in factual, somewhat detached, statements.

When he got to the point where he was trying to call Peter's phone, his eyes returned to the mirrored wall. "I called a few times. But I wasn't getting through. No one was answering. So I kept trying."

Peter felt his heart constrict at the statement. The guilt came back. He regretted that moment. He'd picked up in the end, but while ignoring that call, he could have cost Neal his life.

"So then why didn't you try to call 911?" the agent replied, looking at Neal inquisitively. On his face was a frown. "Why did you keep calling that number if no one was picking up? You didn't have much time."

"Because I had to call Peter," Neal responded simply. "I knew he would find me. And he finally did pick up."

That conversation once he did pick up replayed in Peter's head. The sound of Neal somewhat panicked at that point, sounding very little like himself. Sounding the opposite of how he did now.

"But he didn't find you at the house," the agent stated.

"No." Neal shook his head slowly. "But he did find the house." He paused. "By that time I had to leave. Jason came back. He knew I had the phone."

No one interrupted then as Neal continued. This time he did describe a bit of his thought process. He explained how before Jason came back, he had to decide what to do with the phone, and mentioned a few of what he thought were his options, including hiding it and pretending he didn't know anything about it. In the end, he went with what he felt was the best choice.

Peter felt a bit proud listening to him describe that rationale. Neal being smart. Neal thinking about consequences and downstream impacts.

Neal returned to facts and a somewhat deadpan delivery of statements of events. The rest of the proceedings in the house then came in continuous account like it was unfolding the details of an action movie. From Jason breaking the phone, to the threat to go somewhere else, to the scuffle that ensued, to incapacitating Jason and securing a weapon. Then there was the attempt to get free.

Peter found himself having forgotten, despite the clear description when Neal started, a description that was heavily laden with disdain and anger, that Neal had been chained this whole time. While he had momentarily forgotten that throughout the account of everything else, he knew Neal had not.

Dammit, Peter thought to himself. He was starting to question more and more the impact this confinement might have had on Neal.

Neal continued speaking. After finally becoming 'free', there was the reintroduction of Messier, and the rest of the acts that ultimately led to Neal shooting, being shot at, and ultimately being shot himself. And then being in the forest.

"I wasn't sure if he was following me," Neal explained, pausing to take a breath after the last few statements had taken a handful of minutes. "He shot into the woods, and I didn't know if he would keep coming. So I ran."

"Which direction and why?" the agent asked.

Neal narrowed his eyes slightly. "The direction I chose was 'away,'" he responded, a little sarcastically. "Unfortunately I didn't have a compass."

"You ran four miles."

"I've been told. You guys have a lot of woods up here."

"You were barefoot. Did you realize how long you were running for?"

"I wasn't really thinking about the time," Neal responded.

"That's fine," the agent responded, shaking his head slightly. "So let's keep going. After finding a road, you were finally able to make a call again."

Peter watched Neal's momentary glibness fade slightly as the younger man shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable. "I did," Neal replied.

"And you again called Peter."

"Yes," Neal responded. He looked towards the mirror again. "He answered this time."

"From what number?" the agent persisted. "Where did you get a phone?"

Neal frowned. He looked at the agent for a moment without speaking. Then he asked, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you said Jason broke the phone that you had taken from him," the agent continued. "So where did you get a phone to call from this time?"

Peter watched as Neal looked flustered for a moment before catching himself and masking his expression again, though he shifted again in his chair. He could pick up on the nervous energy that Neal was resisting from expressing, though was pretty sure his exterior demeanor was enough to hide it from the other agents.

Peter let Neal squirm for just a moment longer before it looked like he was actually about to answer, and then he unfolded his arms and leaned forward to press the button on the wall again. "I think we've covered everything that has anything to do with Jason and Messier," he said. "With all due respect, Agents, anything beyond this is going to be a recollection from a fever dream. Neal was delirious when I found him."

The two agents in the room exchanged a look, as if trying to judge each other's assessment of what they had collected. The taller one then nodded and said, "That's fine. We have enough."

Meanwhile Neal's eyes were on the mirror.

Peter met the eyes, despite knowing he couldn't see him.

"Am I done now?" Neal asked, tone a little uncertain, as though he wasn't sure what was coming next. He asked the mirror the question first, but then turned his attention back to the two agents in the room.

"Almost," the taller agent said. He pushed back his chair and stood up. "We just need some photographs."

"Photographs?" Neal echoed.

"Of you," the agent responded, gesturing at him briefly. "The bruises. Apparently no one took any at the hospital."

"Oh," Neal answered. He frowned slightly, as the other agent in the room got up as well. "Is that all really necessary?"

"Yes," the agent responded. "We'll be right back."

Peter got up from his seat in their own room as he watched the agents leave Neal alone. "We'll be done in a few minutes," he told Diana as he walked towards the doorway, not waiting for her response.

"Take your time…" she replied, remaining seated.

Peter walked briskly into the hall, and then nodded at the two agents as he passed them walking from the room Neal was in. Without exchanging words, he continued to that doorway, turning the knob to push open the door.

Neal remained seated in the same place, and looked up as Peter entered the room. He didn't say anything, but just watching warily as the older man approached.

"You okay?" Peter asked him. He reached the edge of the table and stopped, touching the surface of it with his fingers. He watched as Neal nodded.

"How long was that?" Neal asked. He turned his head to view the clock that was out of his direct view.

Peter glanced at his own watch. "Nearly an hour," he noted. Then he said, "That was good, Neal." He paused. "I'm sorry that you—"

"Thank you," Neal interrupted. "For stopping it, because I—"

"Stop," Peter said, tone a little harsher than he intended. As Neal eyed him, looking a little apprehensive, he shook his head at him gently and then raised a finger to his lips in a gesture to be quiet before dropping his hand back to his side. They were still being recorded, and Neal should know that too. He was a little surprised that he didn't. And maybe he did, and hadn't been about to possibly incriminate or draw suspicion to himself or his statements, but Peter also wasn't going to risk it if Neal was too tired to realize it.

Neal seemed to at least realize it now, and shifted gears. "Are the pictures necessary?" he asked. "Wouldn't the hospital report, which they already seem to have, be sufficient?"

"You're almost done," Peter told him. "It'll probably take a minute." Watching Neal's face, he added a little impatiently, "Just do it, Neal. Trust me when I say you're not in the position to call any shots here."

Neal continued to look at him, pausing as though there were many questions he wanted to ask but knew he couldn't in the current moment.

"And after that we'll see if we can hit the road," Peter replied, answering at least one question he knew Neal must have. Beyond that, he didn't know. And he didn't want Neal to ask him again either until he figured it out.

One of the agents returned them, accompanied by another they hadn't seen before. A younger man with glasses carrying a professional looking camera.

"Okay, so before we do this," the taller agent began, approaching Peter and Neal at the table. "Neal, we found one more thing."

Peter found himself tense a bit at the statement. He hadn't been expecting anything other than a quick few photos and then to leave. He watched Neal as the color drained completely from his face; they both remained silent for now.

"Here," the agent continued. He held out his hand towards Neal.

Peter looked down towards it. He saw the wallet.

Neal's stiffness disappeared and a small smile crossed his lips. He reached for the leather object. "Thanks," he said, flipping it open once it was in his hand, checking the contents.

"In case 'Will' ever needs to be employed by the FBI again," he agent said with a joking tone, "then having his identification might help."

"Doubt that'll happen," Peter noted gravely. He met Neal's eyes as the man looked up from the wallet at the comment.

"Alright, let's get the photo-shoot over with…" the agent continued. "Agent Lorimer here will take just a minute of your time."


	40. Chapter 40

_A few apologies -_

 _This is later than I intended. For most of this story I kept to once a week updating, and I slipped again. I'm sorry._

 _I thought I would wrap this up by 40 chapters. Taking a little longer than intended._

* * *

 _Let's get the photo-shoot over with._

Neal bristled at the comment as it echoed in his mind, repeating itself even after he was finally able to leave the interrogation room. It repeated again even later as he finally left the federal building. It repeated and repeated and left him feeling chagrined and somewhat exposed.

Providing his statement at the field office left him feeling exhausted. He'd talked more that day than in quite a while, considering most of his time away had been in solitude. In addition to that, the interaction with the federal agents had been… trying. While he hadn't expected the agents there to be overly friendly, or even cordial, their approach left him feeling poked and prodded at. He felt like he was part of another team, rather than a contributing member of the White Collar division, even if at a different capacity.

He felt like a suspect. Like they looked at him differently. How much of that was a valid assessment versus his own preconception, he wasn't sure. But it left him feeling unsettled.

He'd expected going into the room to give a lengthy, detailed account of his last few days, and he had also expected to get some questions. But in the actual process, rather than just clarifying questions, he felt they exuded suspicion and distrust. Like he wasn't on their side. In the back of his mind was the fear that they _knew_ something. That they could tie him to other events and would. Still, he had been open with them, sharing as much detail as he could, as factually as he could, about what had taken place while he was confined to the basement at the house.

Throughout all of it, he was cautiously thankful for Peter's presence, even if it was somewhat impersonal and remote. He was there and engaged, albeit behind a wall out of sight. Neal particularly appreciated his interruptions at the appropriate times. After the diner, he knew he was on thin ice with Peter, and found himself feeling a little surprised but appreciative each time the man interjected. It also made him feel just a little bit hopeful, considering it to maybe be a sign that Peter was still on his side. Maybe, as mad as he was, he wouldn't completely give up on him.

There was obviously that risk. He'd given Peter enough reason now to do exactly that. Forget the infamous list of discretions and missteps that were continually inventoried and recounted each time he messed up. This one morning was enough to trump all of that. And he realized it unequivocally.

This one goddamn morning.

Still, Peter hadn't just thrown him to the wolves when there was a chance to just hand him over. He'd controlled the situation.

So that still made Neal hopeful. Despite the anger and disappointment Peter had conveyed earlier, maybe he'd understand that Neal had behaved in the moment and not out of a consciously premeditated plan. If he was defending him now, stepping in to protect him, maybe that truly indicated an acknowledgment of all of that. They were still partners.

That feeling was short-lived once outside the conference room, however. Once the process was over, Peter was once again cold and a bit rigid just like earlier. Similar to before, he also gruffly told Neal and Diana to 'stay put' without any other comment or context as he stalked off and disappeared for a length of time behind Val's closed office door.

Neal realized that 'after the diner' might be the simple phrase that defined the turning point of his stint with the FBI. That fact filled him with a sense of uneasiness.

Diana in the meantime was once again all about distracting small-talk, though this time with concerned looks, commenting on how she didn't realize how badly he'd been hurt. In hearing this, and recognizing she'd been behind the glass with Peter, Neal found himself feeling a little deceived and once again exposed. He supposed he didn't care that she had listened in on the statement, considering it would be submitted as evidence anyway, but there was something about the photos and being a specimen that she had been witness to that left him a bit uncomfortable. Regardless, he smiled back at her and shook his head at the comments, assuring her that it all just looked much worse than it was, as he leaned back against one of the desks in the bullpen, ignoring every ache and pain in his body.

When Peter finally returned, it was fortunately with the news that they were leaving. There was no formality or bravado about that; it was simply a fact, delivered with conviction. He clearly wanted to leave.

"Back to New York?" Neal asked. It almost seemed too good to be true.

"Yes, Neal," Peter replied, a little stiffly, turning from where he was gathering the loose folders that they had arrived with. He met his eye. "Why? Did you have an alternative destination?"

Neal swallowed and didn't respond to that, simply meeting Peter's eye, which still had that hardened look. He realized then he wasn't quite forgiven, not even remotely, and suddenly felt foolish for being hopeful. Peter's support during the statement was for an audience. He wasn't sure why he'd even considered he might even partially be out of the doghouse. For all he knew, the protectiveness back in the interrogation room was simply to secure that White Collar, and not this rural field office in Vermont, would be responsible for any further charges or convictions against the once great Neal Caffrey.

Now, while he'd been looking forward to leaving, he once again realized he had no idea what was waiting for him back in New York.

He thought about that on the car ride back to the hotel, for which he found himself again resigned to the backseat. He didn't comment on it when Diana went directly to the front passenger seat; after all, he had walked to the car much slower than they had, with Peter glancing back at him occasionally as though in the fifty-foot walk Neal might somehow disappear.

He realized he was now going to be under a skeptical, frowning, and inimical microscope.

For all the confessing he had done that day, his soul didn't feel any lighter. The guilt still weighed there. He wasn't sure if he felt any better at all about being honest about what had happened, or just worse.

Was this the end of Peter's trust? He seemed to dismiss the idea of ending their agreement while at the diner, but Neal knew the more Peter thought about something, stewed on it, the probability of him making a more definitive decision rose rapidly.

Even early on in this case, when his wrongdoing had simply been inserting himself into the Messier stakeout too soon, it had resulted in Peter threatening their partnership. 'Do you want to just sit at a desk?' Peter had asked him. 'Pushing paper around? No time in the field?' He had followed up on that statement by asserting that at least once a week Neal did something that would cause other CI's agreements to be terminated with no questions asked.

Neal hadn't really taken those words too much to heart then. He recoiled at the thought of a being desk-ridden, but at the same time had felt the accusation was exaggerated and the threats were empty.

Now, in the aftermath of having done something so much worse, he realized those threats were coming back to haunt him. Neal had committed real _crimes_ this time. Peter would never look past that.

He was still thinking about it, and the unknown future, when they reached the hotel parking lot. Peter parked close to the entrance, and within seconds of the ignition being off, he and Diana were both out of the car.

Neal sat in the back seat, motionless. He suddenly felt paralyzed.

The door beside him opened, and he looked over. Peter stood there, looking somewhat impatient, peering in at him. "Let's go," was all he said.

"I'll wait in the car," Neal responded.

Peter exhaled, rolling his eyes slightly, and took a step forward to lean towards him, his arm resting against the open door frame. "Neal." He said his name in a way that somehow emphasized every letter. "Come on. It'll take five minutes. Let's go."

"If it'll take five minutes, I'll wait," Neal answered, realizing he was likely playing with fire. But somehow the car just felt safer. "You told me to stay off my feet." It was true. Peter had told him that a few times, mostly before the confession. Afterwards they hadn't spoken much. In fact, after the confession, Neal also hadn't been alone with Peter, with the exception of the brief car ride from the diner to the office. He realized now he didn't want to go up to the room with him. He didn't know what Peter would say or do. Whatever it was, it was inevitable. But it could be delayed.

"You guys coming?" came Diana's voice from the other side of the car.

"Go ahead," Peter responded to her, straightening his posture to talk over the car. "I'll be a minute."

A minute. That wasn't long enough to strangle him. So Neal waited, staring at the back of the driver's seat headrest in front of him. Peter's voice came predictably seconds later as the man leaned back down towards the car door again.

"No games, Neal," he said.

"I'm not playing a game," Neal told the headrest earnestly. "Peter, I have nothing in the room. Everything I have is on me. I shouldn't be walking. So I'll wait here."

"You'll wait," Peter echoed.

" _Yes_ ," Neal said, somewhat defensively.

Peter paused, as though hesitating.

Neal turned his head towards him, feeling the unspoken accusation of distrust coming from the man he usually thought he could trust his life with. He felt slightly angered by that, despite knowing he deserved it. Here he was off anklet, a criminal and a flight risk. "I only hotwire a max of a car a week," he said to his handler, tone facetious. He felt a sensation of irritation mixed with the concurrent adrenaline of fear building in him. "So my quota's up until Monday, if that's what you're so concerned about." As he spoke he realized he didn't even know what day of the week it was.

Peter's jaw noticeably stiffened.

"Here." Neal extended his arms towards Peter, wrists up and held closely together. He ignored the stabbing feeling cutting up through his side to his abdomen and shoulder at the moment. "Want to cuff me for good measure?" He stared at Peter challengingly.

"Neal…"

"Just make sure it's tight enough or it's as though you didn't bother," Neal persisted. "Remember I have shoes and I'm hydrated now."

Peter paused, studying him silently, working his jaw. Then he said slowly and in a low tone, "Put your hands down, Neal."

"You sure?" Neal replied impudently. He kept his hands outstretched. "Last chance."

"I said, put them _down_."

Neal hesitated but then obeyed, dropping his hands. Peter's voice was that quiet, calm version of mad that he recognized. It was never a precursor of anything good. He resolved himself to definitely not go into the hotel with him now, no matter what. He folded his hands on his lap and stared again at the headrest at his eye level.

"You done?" Peter asked him.

Neal raised his eyebrows slightly but didn't turn his head. "I suppose," he replied, a little curtly.

"Is that how you think I'm treating you?" Peter asked next, tone a mix of annoyed and worn-out.

"No…" Neal responded, though uncertain. He wanted to say _yes. Sort of._ But he wasn't sure if it was unfounded. So he didn't have a good answer, except avoiding eye contact. He wasn't sure how to describe how he was being treated. Since the diner, Peter hadn't said much to him at all and what he did say didn't exactly strike a level of confidence. He felt a slight callousness from the man that had only been absent while he'd provided the statement back at the office. Now, simply asking to be left alone in the car for five minutes was feeling almost like a test, and he didn't know which one of them was failing.

"No?" Peter repeated.

Neal shook his head.

"So what's with the attitude?" Peter asked.

Neal didn't respond. He wasn't sure he would describe his side of the discussion as 'attitude'. He was simply reacting in the way he felt Peter's distrust warranted.

"You're tired," Peter told him after a moment's pause.

Neal couldn't argue with that. So he nodded. "Yeah," he admitted. He was tired. He was exhausted. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to lay down on the backseat of the car, the only thing the least bit close to a bed in the vicinity, and a surface he was pretty sure would be more comfortable than the cot he had spent half of the week on. But at the moment he sat upright, stiff, and waited.

He continued to feel Peter's eyes on him but still couldn't bring himself to turn his head and meet his eye.

After a moment longer, Peter told him, "You better stay in the car," in a brusque tone. With that the door beside him slammed shut and he winced slightly at the noise.

He found himself alone in the car. Once again he wasn't sure who had passed the test.

* * *

In the hotel room, silently fuming, Peter quickly gathered the limited belongings he had, doing a quick cursory review of the space to ensure he didn't leave anything behind as he did so. There wasn't much to take, and Neal was correct that none of it was his. Neal literally only had the clothes on his back.

As he scanned the room, his mind was on his charge in the parking lot, sitting in the car. Unattended. He tried to tell himself that there was no need to monitor Neal as closely as he felt the instinct to at the moment, despite the fact Neal seemed to have been projecting an obstinate 'I dare you to see what happens' type of aura.

Peter wasn't sure if that observation was accurate or whether he had imagined it. Neal had definitely been an insolent pain in the ass, but Peter wasn't positive if there was a dare underlying it as well. Surely Neal running was a one-time thing. Right? Still, he felt tested by the man's desire to stay in the car. Despite that, when studying his CI minutes before, he could see the clear fatigue shining through, even past the stony stubbornness he was trying to convey. He knew his choice was to give in and leave him, meaning he'd trust him for the time being, or have an argument about trust.

And that argument was an age-old one that Peter didn't think either of them had the energy for, nor one during which he'd be able to keep his hands to himself.

But if Neal moved from the car now…

He shook his head, dismissing the thought.

Once he was sure he had everything, he sighed and briefly took a seat on the bed, taking a moment simply to breathe and to call El. He didn't want to spend too much more time in the hotel, and still needed to check-out of the rooms, but needed to tell his wife that he was finally headed home, and knew hearing her voice would help him get out of his funk.

He was right.

"Oh, that's great news, Peter," she said after hearing the update that they were going to be headed home. "So everything's settled with the case?"

"In progress," he replied. "Nothing we can't handle at home."

"Good," she said. "I know it's only been half the week, Hon, but it feels so much longer."

"Trust me, I know…" he answered, running a hand through his hair as he looked around the hotel room. "All I want is to be in my own bed."

"I'm sure Neal feels the same way," she commented. "How is he doing?"

Peter sighed. Neal. He closed his eyes briefly. "He's fine, El."

"Fine?" she asked. "What was with that sigh?"

Of course she would pick up on that. "Nothing, Hon. I'm just…" He paused. There was no way he could hide it, and he wasn't going to attempt to try. "I'm just not very happy with him right now, that's all."

"Why? What'd he do?"

He rolled his eyes slightly, feeling his stomach turn as the memory of it all returned in full force. "I'd rather not explain over the phone," he said honestly. "I'll explain tonight."

"Didn't he just get out of the hospital?" she responded, frown clear through her tone. "What could he have possibly done?"

"It's _Neal_ ," he responded. "Don't you know the options are limitless?"

"But I thought you said he was hurt, Peter. What—"

"I'll explain tonight," he repeated, shaking his head slightly. He felt bad to interrupt, but also knew he couldn't get into it now. But to do that, he had to appease her concern. "Trust me, Hon. He's fine for now."

She sighed herself. "Alright," she said, clearly a little reluctantly. "If you say so. I have to say, you have me more than a bit curious though…"

"I know." He paused. "But trust me, you'd rather not know." Peter glanced at his watch. It was about two in the afternoon. "We're leaving in a few minutes, Hon… I'm going to guess we won't be in until maybe seven thirty or so. Depends on traffic."

"It's such a long drive…" she said. "Just make sure you break it up if you need to."

"It's fine," he answered, though he wasn't looking forward to the hours behind the wheel. "Like I said, I'll just be glad to be home." He paused again. "But I need to have Neal stay with us tonight, El. He's off anklet and—"

"It's fine," she interjected. "And you know that. His room is ready. Just get home safe."

"Thanks. Love you."

"Love you too. I'll see you both tonight."

Diana waited in the lobby for Peter, small duffel bag over her shoulder. She considered herself lucky that she had been able to bring a few spare things with her, all simply happenstance due to having had a bag in her car in preparation for spending the night at Christie's. She'd never considered it would be used for a detour out of town.

Now, she was glad to have those few days behind her. She was relieved they were going home, as a team, with a nearly closed case.

In only a few minutes she saw Peter approaching, brow furrowed and a plastic bag looped through his arm, the contents of which were whatever few items he might have had in the room. She could tell by his swift gait towards her that he too was very ready to go.

"Where's Caffrey?" she asked as the man closed in within hearing distance.

"Car," Peter responded somewhat bluntly. As he reached her, he turned his head towards the reception desk behind them in the lobby. "Did you check out yet?"

"I just gave in my key," she answered. She raised her eyebrows. "Car?" She paused. "Is he okay by the way? I didn't realize until they took the photos how –"

"He's fine," Peter answered, a little dismissively. "Let me check out and we can finally get out of here."

She followed as he started walking towards the reception desk. "You want me to drive?" she offered.

"I'll start us out," he responded. "Might take you up on it later though. Thanks."

"Of course," she answered. She stayed quiet as she watched him approach the desk and greet the woman that sat behind it. She could tell he was still in somewhat of a distracted mood, answering questions somewhat gruffly and continuing to appear bothered by something. His tone regarding Caffrey continued to show there was something unresolved...

In just a couple minutes, the woman behind the desk was smiling and saying they were all set, and Peter was turning away and heading towards the exit.

Without a word, Diana followed him.

"Hey, Boss, is everything okay?" she asked, following him through the automatic sliding doors.

He glanced back at her at the question, allowing her to catch up as they reached the parking lot outside. "What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"You tell me... Just seems something's up," she said, as they walked in step towards the car. "Ever since you and Neal got back from lunch… Did something happen? Is it the case?"

"Nothing happened..." Peter replied. "Just focused on closing out this case and getting home. That's all."

"Well, I agree with that," she responded with a slight shrug. If he wasn't going to go say anything further now, she wasn't going to push. She figured she had a handful of hours in the car to see if he decided to open up further later.

They were just about ten feet from the car when she heard Peter curse under his breath. She frowned, analyzing him but could only see that he was focused on the vehicle. As he got closer to it, he seemed to relax a bit.

"What's the matter?" she asked, further confused. She looked at the car and could see nothing out of the ordinary.

"Nothing," Peter responded, shaking his head slightly. He then muttered slightly, "I just didn't see him there for a minute." He walked towards the trunk of the car and said nothing further.

Diana frowned at the response as she took a few more feet towards the car. She also hadn't been able to see Neal as they approached, but hadn't thought much of it. At close distance now, she could see that he was reclined in the backseat. She frowned further at Peter's reaction to not seeing him right away, but without commenting, she walked over to drop her duffel bag into the trunk beside the plastic bag that Peter had already set there. He closed the trunk silently and walked around towards the driver's side as she returned to the passenger's.

Back in the driver seat, Peter turned the keys in the ignition, sighing to himself. He was slightly irritated at himself for once again thinking the worst when in a fleeting moment he didn't see Neal in the car. Once again, he'd been quick to anger and it was unwarranted. As Diana settled in the passenger seat beside him, he turned the engine, allowing the car to fill with the sound of a local station, currently on commercials, before he looked behind him to the backseat.

Neal had sprawled out on the backseat – not exactly laying down as the seat wouldn't allow his full length to extend, but he had pushed himself back into the corner of the seat behind Diana, slouched down to recline back as much as he could, and his legs were upright across the rest of the seat, sneakers propped up slightly against the door behind Peter.

Neal met his eye briefly, frowning a bit when noticing the attention. "What," he said, barely a question.

Peter studied him for a minute. Something about Neal's prone position made him calm slightly. He reminded himself his annoyance over what he thought was an empty car was of his own volition. Neal hadn't done anything. In fact, Neal hadn't done anything since he'd been found. He tried to remind himself of that. "Can you wear a seatbelt?" he asked, as though that was the primary thing on his mind.

Neal paused at the question and then made a slight face. "I could, Peter, but—"

"It's fine, Neal. Forget it." Peter turned back towards the front of the car, gripping his hands on the steering wheel. He sighed and briefly glanced once more at Neal in the rear view mirror before turning his attention to Diana, who was just buckling her seatbelt. "I can go a couple hours without filling up…" he started. "Did you get a chance to eat, Diana? I realized Neal and I went for lunch but—"

"I'm good," she interjected, giving him a smile. "Some of the guys at the office had bagels brought in this morning. I've had enough carbs and cream cheese to last for a while."

He gave a small smile back. "Okay, good." He shifted the car's gear into reverse. "Alright. Here go. Five and a half hours to go."

"At least it's scenic," Diana said wryly.

"Maybe in autumn," Neal responded sarcastically from the backseat.

Diana chuckled a bit. "You have a point."

* * *

The ride was long. Peter wouldn't deny it. Once he hit the highway and the terrain remained unchanging mile after mile, he wanted nothing more than to be home. The miles ahead seemed endless.

He was thankful for Diana, who began with small talk and then over some time with a more targeted discussion, talking a bit about the case and next steps. It kept his mind occupied, and also focused him on the specifics of what would happen next. He needed that, particularly given his current state of unknown with Neal. He wasn't sure what the hell he was going to do once they got back to New York, and at least the next stages of the case being clear were a small comfort.

They were just north of Albany, a couple hours into the ride, when Peter made the decision to stop for gas.

He pulled off the exit, trying to stifle the innate yawn that emerged as he pulled up to the red traffic light at the end of the off-ramp, eyeing the Stewart's gas station within sight a short distance down the road.

As the light turned green he moved ahead, yawning again.

"I'm going to go in and get some coffee," Diana said as Peter pulled into the gas station a minute later and pulled up to one of the tanks. "Want one?"

"Yes," Peter responded, putting the car into park. "Black. Large."

"You got it."

"Thanks."

"You want anything, Neal?" Diana asked, craning her neck towards the backseat.

Peter turned the key in the ignition to turn the car off as he glanced behind them into the backseat. Neal was out cold. He was in the same position as before, though now his head was slightly tilted back, cheek against the leather seat behind him, eyes closed and chest moving steadily up and down.

"Let him sleep," Peter replied as he unclipped his seatbelt. "You'll never hear him this silent for a long time."

Diana laughed softly, quietly agreeing as she pushed open her door.

Peter exited the car himself then, gently closing the door behind him. It felt good to step out of the car, even if they were less than halfway through their journey back. His joints felt stiff and he stretched slightly. He found himself going through the motions of refueling distractedly. He knew there were a few hours ahead of them, and he was looking forward to the coffee helping him to get there.

As he stood at the rear side of the car, holding the fuel nozzle to the vehicle and listening to the hum of the refueling, he found himself looking through the back window at Neal.

Neal sleeping now brought him back to the night before. When, secrets unrevealed, he had been under the impression that Neal's restlessness, far-away look, and his nightmares were more to do with the residual effects of his captivity and injury rather than any other factor. After he had heard Neal's confession, he'd quickly made up his mind that the real factor was guilt and apprehension over the consequences of his decisions. Now, having heard Neal's detailed description of three days in that basement, he again was telling himself it was more complicated than that. While the physical impact was obvious, there was no way he was mentally unscathed.

As angry as he still was over Neal's decision to almost run, and the laws broken in his initial steps of consideration, the thought of Neal chained, overpowered, and at the mercy of Jason made him furious in an entirely different way and redirected his energy. Neal had gone into this knowing there was some risk, but not like this. While Peter had been concerned early on that there could be some blip in the plan, because there really wasn't much of a detailed plan after all, he'd been more sure that there would be some sort of abrupt altercation that would require them to step in and intervene. Maybe they'd figure out who Willy was, or would have some other suspicion. Peter had been prepared for that, but not for this multi-day ordeal.

After all of this, Neal looked peaceful now in the backseat of the car. Asleep, he was unsuspecting and calm, a welcome change from the interaction of the earlier part of the day.

Peter once again felt conflicted. While last night he'd felt nothing more than protective of the other man, today he'd fluctuated between wanting to throttle him in one moment and wanting to tell him everything was going to be fine in the next. He now felt some combination of the two, though the earlier statement that Neal had shared of his experience this week was haunting him.

Could he really blame Neal for almost running when there had been so much to run from?

Maybe not the instinct to run… Maybe that was understandable.

But to steal? To carjack?

No excuses. Neal had said it himself.

The nozzle in his hand clicked as the gas tank reached a full state. Brought back to reality, he glanced briefly over at the screen of the gas pump beside him at the racked up charges as he released the nozzle from the car.

As he finished up the transaction, he looked over to spot Diana returning from the station shop, two large coffees in hand and a small plastic bag swinging from one arm.

He decided to try to clear his mind, at least for the next hour, and instead focus on caffeine and simply getting home.

"Want to switch driving?" Diana offered as she reached the vehicle.

"I'm good for now," Peter responded. As tired as he was, he preferred to drive. Concentrating on the road at least gave him something else to concentrate on.

She shrugged. "Up to you," she replied. She balanced the coffees as she moved to open the passenger side door. "I got some snacks too."

"Great." Peter watched her disappear into the car. Then he sighed as he returned his hand to the driver's door handle.

* * *

"You forget how big New York actually is…" Diana said another hour and a half later as she turned the dial on the radio, looking for a clear station now that the previous one had turned to static.

"You mean when you're three hours through it and still a distance from home?" Peter answered with a hint of sarcasm.

"Yeah. Exactly."

"Traffic's not helping…" he answered stiffly, peering out the windshield with a silent sigh. Traffic was moving, but with a lot more congestion than he'd been hoping for. "Though like I say to El sometimes, going a couple hours upstate sometimes takes a full hour just to get out of the city…"

"For some reason, I don't mind city traffic as much as highway traffic…" Diana mused. "Traffic on the highway… That's more frustrating. In the city you expect a little bumper to bumper delays…"

"I guess that's true…" Peter gripped his hands on the wheel tiredly.

A moment of silence passed. A Stones song played on the radio, and Peter focused on the road ahead, musing that he'd been behind or next to the same white SUV for several miles.

It was then that a voice came from the backseat.

"I want to stop in White Plains and get my bike."

Peter was a little surprised at the sound of Neal's voice. The man had been asleep on the backseat of the car most of the ride, and that had been somewhat fine with all of them. Neal likely needed the sleep, and with Diana beside him, Peter hadn't been lacking for conversation. Likely it had also been a less antagonizing conversation. Unlike the one he sensed arising now. He looked in the rear view mirror and caught the sight of Neal now sitting up, a look of discomfort on his face.

"What?" Peter asked, even though he'd heard the question.

"I want to stop," Neal repeated. "To get my bike." He looked out the window. "What exit is next?"

Peter paused, returning his eyes to the straight highway ahead of him. He cleared his throat. "Neal, I don't think that's a good idea." He waited for the imminent objection to follow.

"Why not?" Neal asked simply.

Diana craned her neck to peer at her colleague. "Neal, you just got out of the hospital. Yesterday. Are you sure you're even supposed to ride a bike? "

"Going to the hospital was just a formality," Neal responded dryly.

Peter couldn't help but let out a small, sarcastic laugh. Formality. If Neal could have seen himself at the hospital…

Diana replied, "You were shot, Neal. Not to mention other injuries. If that brief view I saw back at the office was any indication then—"

"Then what? While I appreciate your sudden medical expertise, Diana, that's all superficial. I'm actually _fine_ ," Neal answered, voice laced with just a hint of irritability.

"Yeah, you're fine exactly where you are," Peter responded, with his own curtness. "In the backseat." He glanced in the mirror again and met Neal's eye. "I'm not dropping you off in White Plains. End of story."

"But—"

"We'll get you your bike back," Peter interrupted, predicting the next question. "I promise. But you don't need it today."

Neal paused for just a moment before stating, "It's on the way, Peter."

"So is West Point and Playland. Guess what? We're not stopping either of those places either."

"Peter…"

"Enough, Neal."

"Why not?"

"Because, Neal," Peter answered, with a slight edge to his tone. _Don't push me_ , he said silently. He met his eye again in the mirror. "It's not exactly 'on the way,' and as Diana pointed out, you were just in the hospital."

"But I told you, I'm fine," Neal insisted.

"Good. You're fine. But I'm making one stop, Neal. In the city." Well, two he thought briefly. He would drop Diana off first. "Don't ask me again."

Neal was silent just for a few seconds. Then he spoke a little petulantly as he stated, "It's because I don't have the anklet, isn't it?"

"Neal…" Peter shook his head slowly. He glared at the traffic ahead of him. "It's not. Drop it."

"It is. You don't trust me."

Peter looked in the mirror again and maintained contentious eye contact for another few seconds, noting Neal's silent brooding response, before returning his eyes to the road. He was slightly surprised Neal was having this testy conversation in front of Diana, who sat there silently as the quiet observer, but supposed if he wanted to have it now, there wasn't really an option for privacy.

"Neal, it has nothing to do with the anklet," Peter responded slowly, forcing reason over anger to prevail. "I just want to get home. We're still a ways from White Plains, and after a few hours on the road, I honestly don't feel like taking any detour, whatever the distance. Besides, from there, if you're on a bike then it's an hour back on your own and—"

"And I'll be fine on my own," Neal persisted. "I took the bike there to begin with, remember?"

"Enough," Peter answered, tone a little sterner than he'd intended, but he didn't back down. "Do not ask me again. The answer is no."

He glanced back and met Neal's eye again. Neal held eye contact for a moment, but then turned his head away, glaring out the window as his posture slouched slightly, not pushing the subject further.

"I think it's supposed to rain as well," Diana added, a little tentatively. She peered out the window, as though observing the distant sky. "It's pretty overcast now."

"You hear that?" Peter said. "Rain. Good point, Diana." He glanced in the rear view mirror again. "Hear that, Neal? It's going to rain."

"Rain," Neal echoed dryly. His eyes remained out the window.

 _Rain_ , Peter echoed in his head. Though it was a good reason for motorcycles to be discouraged, as frustrating as it was that his simple response of 'no' wasn't good enough, rain was also another reason for traffic to potentially increase. He wasn't sure if the comment from Diana was based on a factual forecast or a speculative observation of the sky to support his argument. Scrutinizing the sky above the stretch of highway in front of him, he wasn't sure.

Peter felt frustrated again. Did Neal really think he would consider dropping him off at the White Plains airport to reclaim his motorcycle to ride back to the city on his own? Was he truly earnest in that request?

And was he denying the request because he didn't trust him? Or because it wasn't safe? Was it not safe? Or was his response because he preferred simply having a guarantee that Neal was going to get home by controlling the means how? And was that so wrong?

He realized he hadn't even discussed with Neal yet the fact he intended to have him stay at his place tonight.

He sighed, dreading that discussion.

Regardless of the details, he couldn't help but feel like he was being tested. Again.

He reached for his coffee in the cupholder between him and Diana and found the cup empty, furthering his frustration.

He looked at the clock and debated suggesting another pitstop. Stopping would inevitably delay getting home, but would allow a break. And maybe he could hit something.

Diana seemed to sense his conundrum.

"Need to switch?" she asked.

"No," he answered, though a bit reluctantly. With Neal awake now, he didn't want to stop. He wanted to get back to the city. "I'm fine."

"You sure?" she offered. "I really don't mind."

"I can drive too," Neal responded from the backseat.

Peter raised his eyebrows in slight exasperation, aimed at nobody but the road ahead. He wasn't sure what it was about Neal's offer that incensed him. He tried to ignore the feeling. "Thank you both," he said, a little stiffly though he tried to sound genuine. He estimated he had about two hours to go as he gripped his hands on the steering wheel. "I'm good for now."

* * *

Peter was more than relieved when he finally arrived at his home in Brooklyn. Having spent nearly a quarter of the day driving, he was exhausted, and with the sun on its way down, he wanted nothing more than to put this day, which felt like multiple, behind him.

After dropping Diana off at her home, initially Neal questioned Peter's clear direction to Brooklyn, objecting to not being able to return to his own home as well. He insisted confidently that beyond just wanting to be home, that it was a right he had. As the argument started and then elevated, Peter could feel his blood start to boil. After a couple refusals were met with increased rebuttals, impatient, he'd pulled over the car, finding a spot beside a hydrant. Glaring into the seat behind him, Peter unleashed a firm denial to the request, adding a series of accompanying threats to follow if the question was asked again which were less politically correct absent an audience in the passenger seat. Neal then quickly and wisely seemed to sense it was a battle not worth fighting and quieted considerably.

"Fine," Neal had responded though with a hint of annoyance. "Chez Burke it is."

Despite this, while becoming somewhat complacent and quiet, Neal remained cynical and disgruntled and was not hiding that fact.

Peter was still sensing this from the quiet, brooding younger man trailing behind him as he entered his home at nearly eight o'clock.

Satchmo was the first to greet them as Peter unlocked the door and moved into his foyer. He gave the dog a quick scratch behind the ears and urged himself not to get annoyed as his dog readily moved past him to shower Neal with attention, tail wagging frantically. While Neal pet the dog as well, it was not with his usual fervor, which typically involved crouching to the ground and a lot of energy. Satchmo was quick to notice a difference in his usual playmate as well, whining softly and licking at his hand.

Looking away from his CI and dog, Peter was quick to spot Elizabeth walking towards them and didn't hesitate to move forward and shorten the gap, embracing her gratefully and immediately feeling a release of some of his negative energy at the contact.

"Welcome back," she said, arms closing tightly around him. "I'm so glad you're home."

"Me too," he replied softly, leaning in to give her a kiss.

"You must be exhausted," she said, squeezing him again before releasing her hold. She then looked towards the foyer. "Neal," she began, moving towards the younger man. "Sweetie, how are you? You feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," he replied, looking up from Satchmo to meet her eye.

"What's hurt?" she asked, hesitating in a move to embrace him.

"Just my shoulder," he answered slowly. He winced slightly as she gently gave him a quick hug with a gentle embrace but said nothing.

"I wasn't sure exactly what time you guys would get in…" El continued, frowning at Neal slightly before returning her attention to Peter, taking a step towards him and putting a hand on his arm. "I ordered some Chinese food. It's in the kitchen. It arrived a little after seven so it probably needs to be heated up, but—"

"That's fine, Hon. That's actually perfect," Peter assured her, giving a small smile. "Thank you."

"You must be hungry," she continued. "Did you guys eat anything on the road?"

"No," Peter replied. "Just lots of coffee. And yes, I'm starving." He started to walk into the house, El's arm linked through his, feeling slightly more at ease simply from the familiar surroundings. "God, it's good to be back."

Neal watched them briefly, remaining in the foyer. Satchmo stayed at his side.

"Neal?" El asked, turning to view him as she sensed he wasn't following. Her arm slipped from Peter's as she did so. "Are you hungry?"

"Uh… Actually, not really," Neal responded after a slightly pause. He took a few steps in their direction and gave her a small smile. "I appreciate it, Elizabeth, but I might just go take a shower. I'm—"

"You can't shower," Peter interjected, casting Neal a quick look as he continued into his home, moving towards the kitchen.

"I _can_ …" Neal responded slowly, shooting somewhat of a frustrated look towards the back of his moving handler. Despite this objection, he walked slowly with Elizabeth in Peter's direction.

"You can _not_ ," Peter corrected again. In the kitchen, he moved past the island, which had takeout bags sitting on its surface, towards the cabinets and opened one to pull out a tumbler glass.

"And why can't he shower?" Elizabeth asked in confusion, watching her husband move towards the fridge to fill the glass with ice. She frowned.

"He was shot. He's got stitches. He can't get his bandage wet." As he spoke, Peter moved across the kitchen to another cabinet, opening that one to pull out a bottle of scotch.

El watched her husband pour a healthy serving of the alcohol over ice. "You know there are ways to avoid that and still shower."

"Exactly," Neal responded, remaining in the periphery of the kitchen.

"Fine," Peter replied with a shrug, bringing the tumbler to his lips and taking a sip of the liquid. "You want to shower, then shower." He gave Neal a look and raised his eyebrows. "You're so good at not following instructions. Why would this be any different?" With that, he moved back towards the kitchen island to start to investigate the takeout bags.

El looked between the two men with a frown. Neal stood there for a moment, expressionless at the comments from Peter, and then just turned and left without answering. He walked towards the stairs.

El took a step further into the kitchen, closing in on her husband as he pulled out a Styrofoam container of kung pao chicken from one of the paper takeout bags.

"What was that about?" she asked suspiciously.

"He just got shot, El," he responded dryly. He moved around the island to slide open a drawer and extract a fork. "They explicitly said he shouldn't shower. He wants to not listen? Fine. Honestly, I'm too tired right now to deal with him."

"That's not what I'm talking about," she replied. She watched him move back towards the food and shook her head, sighing. "Can you get a plate, Hon? Believe it or not, that's not all for you."

Peter looked up at her and gave a small smile. "Fine." He placed his fork on the counter and moved to get himself a plate. As he did so, he pulled an extra plate for her as well.

She accepted the plate as he slid it towards her and moved to get her own utensils. "That was more than a discussion on getting stitches wet, Peter. That was… _something_."

Peter looked up at her briefly with a shrug, scooping a serving of the chicken and some rice onto his plate. "I didn't mean for it to be."

"Well it was. What'd he do, anyway?" she persisted. "Does this have something to do with that?"

Peter rolled his eyes.

She caught his look and frowned. "You still need to tell me about whatever it is, Hon."

"I will." Peter sighed. "But it's a long story, El."

"So? You've got all night." She paused and then glanced behind her in the direction of the other room, the details of Neal's departure obviously weighing on her. "But first, can you go help him, please?"

"Help him?" Peter echoed incredulously. He stuck his fork into the food on his plate and shook his head. "El. Come on. What the hell does he need help with?"

She shook her head at him in exasperation and then slowly walked to the other side of the kitchen. She pulled open a drawer and reached in to pull out a long cardboard box of plastic saran wrap. She outstretched it towards Peter. "Take this," she told him. "And then go in our bathroom. In the bottom drawer, there's a first aid kit, and it has surgical tape."

Peter stared at her.

"Peter," she said, voice stern.

"You want me to cover him him in saran wrap?" Peter asked wryly.

She sighed. "Only the part of him that needs to be, Peter."

"It's just his shoulder."

"So cover his shoulder."

"He's not going to let me anyway." Peter lifted the forkful of food to his mouth.

"Well, I want you to _try_ ," she said firmly. "Now."

Peter paused, studying his wife. He sighed and swallowed his food. He then reached for his glass, raising it to take another long sip of the scotch. "You're serious."

"Peter, if stitches get wet, it could cause problems. They don't tell you to not get them wet just for the hell of it."

"More headaches for me, you mean," Peter responded.

"Sure." She sighed again. "And doesn't he also need clothes?" she persisted. She then looked him up and down. "Honestly, it wouldn't hurt you to change either…"

He again rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

"Peter. Come on. The food will still be here," El persisted. "Please take ten minutes and go upstairs." She raised her eyebrows. "Don't forget he's your responsibility, Hon."

"Thanks for reminding me," he muttered. He threw back the rest of his drink, swallowing it down with a large gulp and a wince at the burn, and then placed the glass back down on the counter. "Fine. Let me 'help' him." He begrudgingly took the container of plastic wrap from his wife.

"Thank you," she said with a smile.

Peter just shook his head.

He walked upstairs slowly, feeling the aches in his legs and joints from the over five hours he'd spent behind the driver's seat. He admitted to himself that a long, hot shower sounded pretty good at that moment, and he couldn't really blame Neal for wanting one. If food and hard liquor weren't calling him, he'd probably have made the same choice.

When he reached the upstairs landing, he made his way to his bedroom first. He went to his dresser and, tucking the saran wrap roll under his arm, leaned down to pull open the bottom drawer, where he knew he could find some t-shirts and sweatpants that he hadn't tried to wear for more than a few seasons and would likely be more suited to Neal's waistline.

Next he went into their connecting bathroom, locating the drawer with the first aid kit that El had directed him to.

Supplies enlisted, Peter then made his way with slight reluctance to the guest room across the hall. He hovered in the doorway at first, seeing the room was empty.

He sighed.

He then returned to the hallway and walked over to the closed door of the guest bath. He knocked. "Hey, Neal?"

There was a brief sound of movement inside the bathroom. Then after a moment, a response of, "Yeah?"

Peter shifted the items in his grip, sighing softly. _Kid,_ he thought to himself, _this is just as inconvenient to me._ "Are you decent?" he asked.

"Why?" came the answer through the door.

Peter reached down to try the knob of the door, finding it locked. "Just come out for a minute," he requested. "I need to talk to you."

There was another pause and then again the sound of movement behind the door. "Why?" repeated the question.

"Because. Just come out. I'm giving you a minute," Peter said, resisting adding a threat to the request. He felt overtired. He didn't doubt Neal felt the same, and while he respected El's request, she also didn't realize the details of the last twenty four hours. Still, he would try.

He walked back towards the guestroom. Inside, he approached the bed and dropped the supplies he'd carried with him onto the bed. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. He started to wish he'd brought a drink with him.

Eventually he heard the door in the hallway slowly creak open, and a moment later, Neal was in the doorway. He was still fully clothed, including his sneakers.

"Come here," Peter said, patting the seat beside him on the bed.

Neal looked at him skeptically. Then he cleared his throat and slowly shook his head. "We can talk from here," he replied slowly.

Peter chuckled at the response. "Why? You scared of me?"

Neal leaned against the doorframe. "Should I be?"

"Not right now. Come here and sit," Peter responded.

Neal glanced behind him to the empty hallway and then back over towards the bed. Reluctantly he pushed away from the doorway and moved into the room. He slowly made his way towards the bed.

As he approached, Neal took a look at the articles next to Peter on the bed and then back up to meet his handler's eyes skeptically. "What's this? Are you going to show me cruel and unusual?" he asked.

"Barely," Peter responded dryly. "El thinks you might need some help. And I'm guessing she might be right." He shrugged. "She usually is. So sit down."

"Well… As right as she _usually_ is," Neal responded, tone skeptical as he remained standing, "I think I'm okay, Peter."

"Oh yeah? You realize 'think' and 'okay' don't really strike much confidence, Neal?" Peter looked up at him expectantly.

"I'm fine."

"And 'fine' seems to be a recurring euphemism as well…"

Neal rolled his eyes slightly. "Are you done?"

Peter observed him with raised eyebrows. "Are you?" He paused. "Because if I have to tell you to sit one more time, Neal, then you're going to get a reason to be scared of me."

Neal didn't respond right away. He simply gave Peter an exasperated look. But then he warily closed the distance to the bed and slowly took a seat on the mattress about a foot from the other man.

Peter sighed. "Neal. Look, it's been a long day."

"You chose to drive," Neal said.

Peter rolled his eyes briefly. "I know. I did." He shook his head. "I'm not complaining about the drive, Neal. Even without that, it was a long day. Do you disagree?"

Neal shrugged slightly. "I don't disagree," he admitted. "But if you're here to lecture me or anything else, then can you just get it over with? I'm tired, and I'd prefer you not drag this out."

"Neal…"

"I mean it, Peter." Neal's expression gained a look of discomfort or distress. "You obviously want to pick up where we left off at the diner, and—"

"No… Not now. That's not why I'm here. I'm tired too," Peter interjected. "Do you want help or not?"

"I thought you were mad at me."

"Do you want help or not?" Peter repeated, ignoring the question.

Neal paused, looking at Peter with a frown. "Not really."

Peter sighed. "Fine. Let me rephrase the question. Do you want to shower or not?" he asked, a little stiffly. He decided he didn't have time for this. The sooner he dealt with Neal, the sooner he could be back downstairs, with his wife and another glass of scotch, eating something. Neal was right. He was still mad. And although he probably should, he didn't want to talk about it or rehash anything from before, or get into it. Not tonight.

"I do," Neal started. "But—"

"But nothing. Then I'll help you." Peter gestured at his feet and gave him a questioning look. "Can you get those off?"

"Yes," Neal answered, a little defensively. "I can. I'm not an invalid, Peter."

"How are your feet?"

"Fine," Neal replied, a little mechanically.

Peter eyed him for a moment, but the blue eyes gave nothing away. So he didn't push. He nodded his head towards the items behind him on the bed. "I brought you some clothes."

Neal glanced at the clothing and just nodded, not saying anything for a moment. He eyed the other items. "What's the rest of it for?"

"El's idea for you to shower while also adhering to medical advice."

"Plastic," Neal repeated. "So it doesn't get wet."

"Makes sense, right? Like I said, she's usually right."

"Okay." Neal nodded. "I'll do that."

"One-handed?"

Neal nodded again.

"As dexterous as I know you are," Peter started skeptically, "I think you're better off letting me help."

Neal shook his head. "You'd be surprised what I can do one-handed."

"I bet I would be," Peter admitted. "But humor me here and let me get some points with my wife for being helpful. And then I'll leave you to your own devices."

"Until when?"

Peter frowned at the response. "Until when _what_?"

"At some point I figure we're going to finish the conversation from this morning and –"

"You want to do this now?" Peter asked, somewhat exasperated.

"No." Neal shook his head.

"Me neither. So stop." Peter paused. "Listen. You want to shower, then listen to me. Take your shirt off."

Neal hesitated for a minute and then acquiesced, taking his shirt by the hem at his belly and slowly pulling it up and over his head, allowing his good arm to be freed from the fabric first and then slowly pulling the fabric over his injured shoulder. He tossed the shirt beside him.

Peter stood up from the bed then, standing in front of Neal and giving him the once over, eyes scanning his bruised body with a frown. "You look like hell," he said gruffly. He looked at the bandage on his shoulder for just a moment before taking a step over, reaching for the plastic wrap.

"Have you done this before?" Neal asked. "I'm going to take a wild guess that you haven't."

"Have I shower-proofed someone's bandaging before, using saran wrap? No, Neal. But what's your point?" Peter asked. He started to pull the plastic wrap from its cardboard container. "Is there a skillset I'm lacking?"

Neal watched the movement cautiously. "Bedside manner," he answered.

Peter rolled his eyes as he tore off a piece of the plastic he felt was large enough, utilizing the serrated edge of the box. He started to move closer to Neal and watched the man immediately tense up, shoulders stiffening. He paused. "What's the matter?" he asked. He tossed the box itself back on the bed.

"Nothing." Neal shook his head. "Go ahead."

Peter frowned, looking at Neal's rigid posture. It was like he was bracing himself. He suddenly felt a flashback to the hospital, when the doctor had moved in to treat the wound. In that moment, Neal had extended his hand out, looking for Peter, silent but soliciting comfort. "Does it hurt?" he asked now, suddenly feeling a little protective.

"No," Neal responded, tone a bit terse. He was staring at the plastic in Peter's hand.

"Okay," Peter responded slowly. He softened his tone purposefully as he stepped closer and said chidingly, "Don't lie to me." He slowly moved to lift the plastic sheet, now taking it with two hands, approaching the shoulder. He progressed unhurriedly, realizing despite his earlier impatience that he needed to do this gently.

Neal was unmoving and quiet as the plastic came down to cover the bandage. The material had a clinginess to it that caused it to hold loosely onto the skin. Peter left it tentatively covering the shoulder as he then reached to grab the tape from the first aid kid.

Neal watched Peter's movement as the man pulled out a piece of the tape, and then used his teeth to cut it. He then leaned in to apply the tape along the side of the plastic, a couple inches from the wound itself, to secure it in place.

"You smell like scotch," Neal told him as Peter pulled out another piece of tape.

"One drink." Peter replied. Then he grunted, tearing the second piece of tape free. "There are worse smells," he added as he applied the tape to the other side of the plastic. He then moved to pull a third piece of tape from the roll.

"Well, I didn't say that was the only thing I smelled," Neal muttered. He winced at Peter applied the third piece of tape a little less gently. "Ow."

"There," Peter replied, scrutinizing the job. The plastic seemed secured, spread over the bandage with enough coverage to hopefully keep any water from getting underneath. "You think that'll work?"

Neal craned his neck briefly to observe the job. "Yeah." Then he turned his gaze back to Peter. "Thanks."

Peter shrugged. "Thank El." He pushed himself up from the bed.

"Peter."

Peter turned, looking at Neal. Sitting there, shirtless now with an awkward application of plastic to his shoulder, he looked a bit vulnerable. "What, Neal?"

"When are we going to talk?"

Peter paused, absorbing the question. He knew he owed Neal a response, though he hadn't decided yet on what that response should be. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Neal seemed skeptical.

"Do me a favor," Peter replied. "Stop asking." He cleared his throat, looking around the room. "I'll tell you this. This was a long day." He paused. "I'm tired, Neal. Take a shower. Then come downstairs and eat. Don't piss me off. We'll do this tomorrow."

Neal continued to look skeptical. "What's 'this'?" he asked.

"What I just said not to ask me about."

Neal tilted his head, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"Go shower," Peter told him. "Now. Then come downstairs."


	41. Chapter 41

El watched her husband return to the kitchen, remaining silent at first as she simply observed him. About fifteen minutes had passed since he had gone upstairs to Neal. She couldn't tell by his current expression how it had gone, as he conveyed fatigue more than any other emotion. She did note that he had changed his clothes, now in jeans and an old t-shirt.

Peter approached her where she stood by the kitchen island and leaned over for a quick kiss, simply saying, "Mission completed," in a somewhat ambiguous tone before stepping away to recover his empty glass from the counter, approaching the refrigerator once again to get a refill of ice. "I successfully waterproofed my CI. Not something I expected to do when I joined the FBI."

"Well, that's good," she replied slowly. She watched him go through the process of making himself a another scotch on the rocks. She knew his sarcasm hinted at the remaining underlying frustration and also knew she would have to work past that. "How'd it go?"

"Well, considering I'm immediately making a second drink," he replied, a little facetiously though he shot her a small smile, "how do you think it went?"

"Peter, helping him was the right thing to do. I'm sure he appreciated it." She sighed. "Let's finish eating and talk. I know you're just as exhausted as he is."

"I'm sorry, Hon. It's just that he's been pushing me all day," Peter answered. He took a sip of his drink before moving down the counter towards the food again.

"In what way?"

"I don't know. In that subtle and not so subtle way he's somehow mastered." Peter put down his drink and picked up his plate. "His way."

"Okay, well he's not here now so relax. Grab your food and let's sit," El suggested. She watched him locate his fork on the counter. "Or you want to stand?"

"Honestly, I've been sitting for half of today," Peter replied with a bit of fatigue.

El watched him start to eat, thoughtful. She'd eaten herself while waiting for them, and now struggled with how to get Peter to relax a little bit, not knowing the full context of what had happened during the week. Clearly he was agitated, perhaps by the case itself, but also seemed to be projecting most of that annoyance towards Neal. She was conflicted by that. All she knew was that Neal had been missing, had been hurt while held in captivity, and had been back on the radar for just a day. What could have happened in that day? Up until today, in speaking to Peter he'd been worried more than anything else.

"Do you have to go to the office tomorrow?" she asked, not wanting to broach the topic again too quickly. "Maybe it would be good to take the day and just get some rest, Peter. Give yourself some space, clear your head… It's been an intense week. I'm sure Hughes would understand."

Peter shook his head in response as he swallowed a mouthful of chicken and rice. "Nah, I've got to keep this case going, El. The sooner I wrap this up, the easier this will be. Trust me." He then gave her a pensive look. "How do you know I need to clear my head anyway?"

She chuckled softly. "It's pretty obvious, Hon. Even if you weren't already an open book."

He just shook his head again, continuing to eat. "Well, I'm not so sure it's _clearing_ my head. It's more like _sorting_ my head…" He paused to eat and then added, "I mean, I'd love more than anything to just _clear it_. Especially the last day. But unfortunately that's not really an option."

She moved around the counter to rub his arm briefly, and said, "Look, let's think about it in next steps. Like immediate ones. I'm going to open a bottle of wine. You're going to finish eating, and then you're going to sit down and tell me what this whole 'last day' thing is about."

Peter nodded, pushing his food around his plate distractedly. He watched as El moved to get herself a drink, and wondered if she had planned one before, or whether he was the catalyst. He realized he wasn't exactly being open with her, and it was unfair after he'd left her alone this week. He sighed, returning to the food, resolved to not let this be so personal.

Fifteen minutes later, plates were in the sink and they were on the couch. Peter had given his wife a detailed download of the last couple of days. It was easier for him to open up in person than it had been to speak remotely over the phone, and he spoke freely now, recapping in more detail what had happened; from meeting Neal, getting Neal to and from the hospital, the night at the hotel, the revelation in the morning after Neal dropped the bomb of a confession, the statement at the precinct, and the subsequent headache conversations since. She listened attentively, a glass of pinot gris in her hand, not interrupting though her frown becoming more and more pronounced as he spoke.

"That's a hell of a last two days," she commented once he paused.

"Now," Peter continued, moving the glass in his hand so that the ice cubes rocked against the glass, "he keeps asking me what's going to happen next, and when I want to talk, and it's driving me crazy because I don't know what to tell him." He took a sip of his drink, narrowing his eyes at the glass slightly. "And to make it worse, it's like he's pushing me for a reaction to expedite the whole thing. I'm not sure what the hell to do."

El took a small breath as Peter now shook his head, and let it out slowly. "Well, I certainly get it now…" she said gently. "I understand why you're a bit upset. And frustrated." She shook her head slightly herself. The news of what Neal had done still resonated with her. "I'd never expect him to run, Peter… It's just…"

"No?" Peter asked, a little challengingly. "You don't think he would? With an open opportunity like that?"

"Clearly he didn't…" she pointed out. "He called you instead. And specifically you. Not 911. Not anyone else. He called you."

"What if he hadn't been injured?" Peter asked. "How do I know whether he called me only because he wised up to know he needed medical attention, and otherwise he'd be in Canada or on some island or God knows where with Mozzie right now?"

"I thought you just said he admitted to you he didn't have any real plan. That it was all kind of in the moment, and then he realized he didn't know what he was doing."

"He _did_ ," Peter admitted, conflicted. "He did, El, but he's always got a plan. And if not he devises one quicker than anyone I know. He's done it before."

"Not running."

Peter shrugged, shaking his head. "You mean not successfully running."

"And Mozzie called me a few times this week," El continued. "He had no clue where Neal was, Peter. He was really worried, and kind of being paranoid about it since you weren't calling him back."

Peter rubbed at his brow. "That means nothing, El. He could've just been phishing to see what you knew. Whether we were on to them."

"Peter, why do you think the worst?" she accused. "He sounded completely genuine. And Mozzie's never lied to me. In fact, he's compromised himself for Neal. You know that."

"He's never lied as far as you know. But he'd be the _first one_ to get Neal to run," Peter replied a bit irritably. "You can't convince me otherwise."

"Clearly he didn't…" El replied slowly.

"Perhaps due to extenuating circumstances."

"There you are thinking the worst again…" she said. "If this is how you've been acting in your conversations with him, I can see why you're at each other's throats… If you meet everything he says with doubt, what's his incentive to be honest?"

"El…"

"No, Honey, listen. You told me yourself when Neal left that first night… You said if he wanted to run, he would toss the watch the minute he was on the highway with that bike. If that's true, you'd never have made it to Vermont. You'd have no way of tracking him. If he had something planned with Mozzie, wouldn't he have done it then?"

Peter paused, reflecting on that. "Maybe," he admitted. He remained conflicted in what side of the argument he should be on. "But I know Neal. He still has a sense of righteousness when it comes to these cases… He could have wanted to close it out before becoming opportunistic. He just didn't count on Jason acting in the way he did… He's behaved that way with other cases, and—"

"Not like that," she interjected. "You really believe that…?" she challenged.

He paused, taking another sip of his drink. "I don't know."

"Exactly. You don't. Don't speculate or project your worst fears on him." She watched him carefully before glancing over towards their stairs, beyond which the subject of their discussion was out of earshot upstairs. "So not to sound like Neal," she said slowly, "but what is next? You say you want to wrap this up quickly, but…"

"I'm not sure how much of it is up to me," Peter replied earnestly.

"Did you tell him that?"

"No…" Peter frowned. "The only thing I really told him is not to tell anyone else about this." His conscience stirred at that decision. "These other details."

She paused. "Well… He must be relieved by that, right? That you're not giving him in for this? At least he knows that, Peter… That he can trust you on that."

"I don't know. Maybe. But then he knows I'm gonna deal with him somehow, unofficially."

"Do you have to?"

Peter looked at her in surprise. "El, how do I just let something like this slide? It's not just the running. It's the stealing, it's the carjacking, it's the… It's all of it." His brow furrowed. "If I went official with this, he'd go back to prison. And I'm supposed to let it slide?"

"I'm not saying to let it slide necessarily…" She shrugged. "But he was hurt, and probably scared, and he made the right decision in the end. He called you. I don't know, Peter… And more importantly he didn't just call you. He _told you what he did_. Even though he could have hidden it, and it was obviously hard to come clean. Doesn't that count for something?"

Peter shook his head. "Yes and no… I mean, it's not that easy, El. In my world, it's pretty black and white. You do something wrong, and the book tells you the consequence. I'm basically telling him to ignore the book. I'm… I'm creating my own book and…"

"Because you know he doesn't deserve what the book says."

"I've been teaching him _the book_ since I started this goddamn deal with him." Peter took a deep, exasperated breath, exhaling it abruptly. "I've been teaching him that it's not about his own judgment or mine, but it's about the rules. And what, now I throw that out the window? What message does that show?"

"That you care? That life isn't actually black and white? That you acknowledge he still is learning how to look at gray?"

"Well, lawful and unlawful is pretty black and white, El. What he did was wrong. To say otherwise goes against what I believe in."

"State of mind isn't black and white, Peter... This is gray. Think about what you said he described happening at the house. Imagine three days of that, and then finally getting free and—"

"It's not that simple…"

"Are you back to debating whether or not to treat this officially, Peter?" she asked. "Because you seem on the fence, bringing it back to the law, and I have to tell you— "

"No," he interjected. "No, I already decided that. I can't. I won't let that happen to him. Not if I can help it." He rubbed a hand over his jaw. "But you know there's still a risk I won't have a choice… What he did… They could still find evidence and link it back to him. There could be security footage, and there could be witnesses. When I found him… He was out of it. Hell, even this morning, he's been too distracted to be as sharp as he normally is… If he didn't cover his tracks like he would normally…"

"You just said he was out of it," she said simply. "Keep that in mind."

He frowned, giving her a quizzical look. "What do you mean?"

"When you decide what to do or not to do. Unofficially. And if they do find out—"

"If they find out, being 'out of it' isn't a defense, El. Especially when you're already a convicted con artist. And if they find out, and they realize I knew about it…"

"Look. We can't worry about that now. You can't control that," El admitted, feeling uneasy herself about the possibility of that. She knew Peter was right. He could lose control of the situation then and quickly. And further, if it was proven he'd been trying to handle things on his own, and based on his own judgment protect Neal from the purview of the law, it could mean equally devastating consequences on him. But she knew for both their sakes, she couldn't focus on that for now. It was out of their control. "Focus on what you do know. Like I said before, break it down into next steps… Start from tonight, then work your way forward."

"Well, I have to do something. But I really don't know what."

"Not tonight. Like I said, focus on now."

"I know, El, but I told you; he keeps asking me when we're going to talk about it. I told him tomorrow, because I really do need to decide… But I swear if he asks me again…"

"Peter, you know how hard not knowing is. Especially for someone like him. You realize he probably thinks you might end your whole relationship. Something like this could impact where he wakes up tomorrow. Do you blame him?"

"I already told him I won't do that," Peter responded, shaking his head, tone adamant. "That's not an option." He lifted his drink and tipped it back, finishing the rest of the liquid. "He should know I meant that." He tipped the glass back again, crunching on some of the melting ice. "If he doesn't…" He shrugged. "Then maybe it's good he thinks about that a bit. He should know that was a risk of what he did."

"So what are your real options?"

Peter took a deep breath at that question. "Unofficially?" He then gave a small shake of his head, looking down at the empty glass in his hand and exhaling deeply. "Hon, I have tried everything you could think of with him for things half as serious as this," he started slowly, looking thoughtful. "Seriously, everything. You name it. Half the time I think I've found something that works, I realize later it didn't. I've tried changing his radius, I've tried house arrest, I've tried approaching it psychologically, I've tried approaching it physically, I've even tried boring the hell out of him…" He paused. "That last one actually usually leads to far more trouble if I have to be honest…" He sighed. "But I can't discipline him for this the same way I would if he just stepped out of radius."

"Maybe you can."

He frowned. "El, how? I need him to understand how serious this was."

"Isn't leaving his radius serious too?"

"Yes, but this is a different level, El. Sometimes he leaves his radius just to get attention or to piss me off. This is a completely different story."

"Fine," she said. "But you also need him to understand that calling you and telling you the truth was the right thing to do," she said pointedly. "Make him afraid of the situation, Peter. Not of you."

Peter's brow furrowed at that, though he looked increasingly contemplative.

"Think it over," El continued. "You'll decide what the right thing to do is."

"Yeah…" he said slowly. He gazed down at his empty glass again.

She studied him, and then said with some tentative suspicion, "Are you contemplating what to do, Peter, or whether you want another drink?"

He turned his head and gave a small smirk. "Both."

"Well, I have a solution for both," she answered. She nodded her head towards the foyer. "You only need two things. The leash and the dog."

Peter gave her a look.

"I'm serious," she persisted. "I've been on full-time dog duty while you've been gone, and Satch misses you. Besides, you're the one that said you've been sitting all day. Trust me, go for a walk, and you'll feel better. You obviously have a lot on your mind. We just talked through a lot of it, but I know there's more. So take a walk. Clear – or _sort_ – your head."

He sighed. "I would and don't mind, El, but Neal's going to come down and—"

"I'll take care of him," she replied. "If he even comes down, Peter. He looked exhausted before. He may just go to sleep."

He continued to look at her, a little unconvinced. After a moment, he sighed, and then slowly shifted to get to his feet. "Fine," he replied. He stood and then gave her a pointed look. "And if he does come down, do _not_ baby him," he said firmly.

She raised her hands up in an innocent gesture, empty glass of wine in one. "Me? Never."

He tilted his head to give her a look of cynicism but then simply walked away, whistling for Satch to follow.

* * *

A short while later, El was sitting on the couch, finishing her second glass of wine and distractedly flipping through the copy of Death of a Salesmen that Peter had been 'speed-reading' that one night earlier in the case when he'd attempted an approach to better understand Neal's past alias. While rereading parts of the play that night, Peter had been psychoanalyzing the character of Willy versus Neal, trying to understand what if any real linkage existed between the two. It had been during that same conversation that Peter had expressed his worry about the case. About Jason in particular, and not trusting him. He was concerned based on tidbits of information from Neal that he could be dangerous.

How right he was. If Peter had followed in intuition then…

Then Jason would likely still be a free man, she reminded herself.

But then Neal wouldn't have been in the situation he had been, wouldn't be hurt, and he wouldn't have had to make those choices; Peter wouldn't be struggling with his decision on next steps. Which she sympathized with. It wasn't easy. And on top of all that, then she wouldn't have these two irritable, overtired men on her hands.

"Where's Peter?"

El jumped slightly, gasping softly and looking up in surprise at the voice. She hadn't heard any footsteps.

Neal stood in front of her, looking slightly refreshed from earlier with wet hair slicked back, but still with exhaustion on his face, darkness beneath his eyes and a slightly less confident posture than usual. She noted the old World Series shirt he wore, faded from years of rewashing, and a pair of sweatpants she hadn't seen in quite some time.

"Neal, I'm sorry – you startled me," she said, slowly closing the book and reaching to place it and the glass of wine on the coffee table in front of her.

"I'm sorry," he said, glancing behind him and towards the other room. "I didn't mean to."

"No, no. It's okay. I just didn't hear you come downstairs, Sweetie. How were you so quiet?" Without any television or music on, she was a little surprised she hadn't heard the typical creak of her stairs. She looked over towards her foyer quizzically.

"I know your stairs," Neal said simply, as though it were a logical answer.

El considered that answer, and what else Neal knew about getting around their home, with a little wariness. But she dismissed it for the moment, figuring Peter already knew this was part of his CI's repertoire. She gestured to the couch and said, "Well, here, take a seat. It's good to have you back, Neal. I wasn't sure you were going to come down tonight. I thought you might just go to sleep."

"Peter said to come down – where is he?" Neal asked as he slowly acquiesced to move towards taking a seat on the other end of the couch.

"He took Satch for a walk."

"Now?"

"He's had nearly a week of not picking up after his dog," she said with a teasing smile. "Tonight's his night." She observed him as he sat and didn't miss the wince on his face. "What's the matter?" she asked. "I thought you said it was your shoulder? What else hurts?"

"There might be a few other things," he admitted vaguely as he shifted a little uncomfortably on the edge of the seat. He gave her a pearly white smile. "Shower helped. Thanks for that."

"Of course. But a few other things like what?" She realized she had never asked Peter for details on Neal's physical state. After hearing he'd been shot in the shoulder, and the length of time he had run, she didn't imagine there was anything in addition to that. She now waited to hear more.

"Uh…" He paused, shaking his head slightly. "Just some bruising. I've had worse. I'm fine.

She gave him a discerning look. "You want something? Aspirin? Tylenol?"

He shook his head. "No, but thanks."

"Some takeout? We have a lot left."

"I'm really not that hungry." He looked distracted to the other side of the house.

She continued to scrutinize him. "How about a drink?" she asked. She caught his expression and said, "You can't say no to everything I offer, Neal. That's not polite."

He gave her a small smile. "I know, Elizabeth, and thanks, honestly. But Peter—"

"Peter what?" she interjected. "He's not here right now."

"Well…" Neal looked a little uncertain. He glanced towards the front door as though the man could walk through at any moment. "He's not exactly happy with me."

"I picked up on that," she said slowly, raising her eyebrows at him. "But he's not offering you something. I am."

"You're also not asking _why_ he's not happy…" he observed carefully, speaking slowly. He frowned. "Did he tell you?"

She gave him a sympathetic look, but without immediately responding to that question, she got to her feet as she asked, "You want a glass of wine or something stronger?"

He paused.

She then said decisively before he could respond, "You know what? You look like you could use something stronger." As his mouth parted slightly to object, she turned and walked off towards the kitchen before he could get a word in.

Neal sat there quietly, unmoving. His eyes moved towards the coffee table, and he stared at the book beside the glass of wine. He could hear the sound of ice from the kitchen.

El returned a moment later and handed him a glass with clear contents before taking her seat. "Here you go…"

"Thanks." Neal slowly raised the glass to his lips and tasted the vodka and soda combination. He could tell it was slightly weak and was appreciative of that. He continued to look at the book. "Why were you reading that?" he asked.

She followed his line of sight. "Oh…" she responded slowly. She then waved her hand dismissively at it. "That. It's nothing. Peter had it and it's been years since I read it."

"So he was trying to figure out my alias?" Neal responded, quickly jumping to the conclusion. "When?"

Elizabeth looked at Neal and then back at the book. She hesitated and then said, "Yes… It was earlier in the case, Neal."

"He probably didn't get it."

"The play?" she asked, a little surprised.

"No," Neal said quickly. "I'm sure he got the play. He already knew the play. I meant he still probably didn't get why I picked that name. I never really told him." He trailed off slightly.

"That's fine, Neal. You can tell him when and if you want to."

"I probably should."

"Don't worry about it."

"Oh, I won't…" he said, giving her a smirk. He took another sip of his drink, suddenly thankful she had brought it for him. "I have bigger things to worry about." He observed her slight change in expression and stated, "So he did tell you what I did."

She paused, pressing her lips together and then reached for her glass of wine. Nodding she said, "Yes, Neal."

"So you know I have bigger things to worry about…" he muttered, looking straight ahead. "I don't know if he told you all the details, Elizabeth, but I wasn't… I didn't mean to do it." He paused. "I mean yes, I _meant_ it, but it was at that specific moment in time. I didn't have any preconceived actual plan to do it and—"

"Neal…" she interjected. "He knows that."

Neal shook his head. "I'm not sure he does."

"You called him," she said simply. "That's what matters."

Neal frowned at bit. "Maybe, but I think the other stuff matters more to him. Like what I did before I called him. Didn't he tell you that part?"

She shook her head. "Sweetie, this is between you and him. What he did tell me is that this doesn't change your agreement with the FBI, and I'm sure he told you that too. Don't worry about what else he told me. You and him need to discuss it."

He glanced towards the foyer again. "But did he tell you what he thinks? Or what he's going to do?"

"Neal," she said gently. "No. He'll talk to you when he's ready."

Neal looked indecisive. He took another sip of his own drink and then leaned back into the couch, wincing slightly at the movement. "I don't think I want to keep the agreement if it's not going to be the same," he said bleakly. "I don't want it to be different."

El studied the tired looking young man on the other end of the couch. "Don't say that…" she reproached gently. "Wait until you talk to him." She waited for him to object or add onto his statement, which was full of uncertainty, likely linked to the foreboding thoughts he was having. But instead he remained quiet. She had no idea what Neal thought Peter might do, and she knew she shouldn't step between it, but she couldn't help but feel her heart ache for him.

She couldn't even tell him not to worry, because she didn't know. "Take it a step at a time," she said instead, similar to the advice she'd given to Peter. It had seemed to work with him, why not Neal?

Neal chuckled slightly at her statement.

"What's so funny?" she asked, a little puzzled, though also a little relieved to see a laugh. She wasn't accustomed to Neal being so serious or concerned. At least not about Peter.

He glanced at her, a smirk lingering for a moment. "Peter gave me that advice once. Actually he actually called it a _goal._ He said he didn't think I could take steps, only bounds… And to work on it…" he trailed off slowly and the smirk was replaced by solemnity once again.

Elizabeth's brow furrowed, hearting panging again. Peter's request for her not to baby him lingered in her mind. She wondered if offering him a hug would qualify.

* * *

Peter returned to his home with a panting dog and admittedly a slightly better feeling than when he'd left. The fresh air and walking briskly, while back in his own neighborhood with familiar sidewalks, street signs, hydrants and occasional graffiti, was a welcome change. This stimulus helped him feel a slight relief to the pressure he'd felt before, and he found himself thankful for his wife's intuition.

He came through the door of the house with slightly lowered blood pressure and unclipped Satchmo's leash, observing the sound of running water and gently clanging dishes from the kitchen and the dull sound of the television from the other room.

As Satchmo panted away, padding across the floor towards the kitchen to find his water bowl, Peter first slipped off his jacket and returned it to its hook on the wall before following his dog more slowly into the house.

His head turned towards the television first, finding Jeopardy returning from a commercial break. He then glanced towards the couch. There he found Neal slumped in the corner of the couch, head lolled to the side with his chin tucked down towards his chest. He had one foot propped up on the coffee table, and one arm was curled around his middle loosely. Peter took note of his old clothes.

He wasn't surprised Neal was sleeping. He'd somewhat expected it. So he was about to leave well enough alone and walk past the scene towards the kitchen when he noticed Neal's other arm, draped down towards the floor with a glass dangling precariously from his slackened fingers.

Sighing, Peter walked towards him, stepping around the coffee table and then leaned down take the glass gently out of his hand. As he did so, Neal stirred slightly, but only to pull that arm up, resting it against his lap as he seemed to push further into the cushions, a slightly deeper sigh exhaling from his lips.

Peter regarded him for a moment longer before turning to walk away towards the kitchen. As he walked, he regarded the quarter-filled glass in his hand and raised it up to smell it. Sensing it wasn't water, he brought it to his lips briefly to sip it.

He rolled his eyes at the taste as he entered the kitchen, the sound of the running faucet and Satchmo lapping water from his bowl growing louder.

"And who thought cocktails were a good idea?" he asked sarcastically as he walked across the room, approaching his wife who stood at the sink, back turned to him as she finished rinsing some dishes. No trace of takeout was left on the counters. "Please don't tell me he did."

Elizabeth turned and viewed her husband, reaching for the glass from his hand as he got closer. "I did," she said. She took it from him and dumped the rest of the contents into the sink, resting the glass on the counter beside it. She then turned off the running water.

"Well, he nearly shared it with your carpet. He's out cold."

She shrugged, slightly dismissively as she moved to grab a dishcloth, wiping her hands dry. "Worse things have been spilled in this house." She raised her eyebrows at him. "By you." She then paused and said, "But I thought he could use something to relax."

He gave her a look. "I told you not to baby him."

"I didn't," she replied with mock defensiveness. "I'd never give alcohol to a baby."

He rolled his eyes. "Seriously, El. He's here because he has to be. He's off anklet and in a bit of a precarious scenario right now. He's not here to be wined and dined."

"Well, you can rest assured he wasn't dined," she said. "He didn't want anything."

"So the contents of his stomach are about two French fries and vodka," Peter responded. "Somehow I'm not sure that's what was suggested in the hospital's discharge papers."

She smiled at him. "He'll live. But I'm glad you're more concerned about his diet than his future at the moment." She paused. "How was your walk anyway?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest casually.

"That walk probably _should_ have been in the discharge papers," he admitted in response with a small smirk. "It was a very good idea." He took a step closer to lean in and give her a kiss. "Thank you."

"I had a feeling," she responded simply, smile continuing.

"I think Satchmo appreciated it too," Peter replied. "But really, I needed that. I can't say it solved my problems, or gave me any answers, but at least I feel like I was away from this case for a little while." He took a deep breath and stretched his arms briefly. "Alright. Let me get him to bed and then it can finally be the two of us. I decided it can all wait until tomorrow."

"Wise choice. I'd like that," she said. "But if you do want to talk to him, you know that's fine."

"Not tonight." He shook his head. "I can't tonight. I know it wouldn't be a good idea."

"I understand." She nodded towards the other room. "Go ahead. I'll see you in a few minutes."

Peter walked back into the other room slowly, noting as he approached that it didn't look like Neal had moved even slightly. As he got closer, he wondered if it was a better idea for El to suggest he go upstairs. The conversations with Neal today had been trying. The last thing he wanted was for them to have another contentious discussion. Peter had cooled off a bit on his walk, but he knew they were both too tired with emotions running high. But he dismissed the idea to leave it to El, noting her reminder that he was his responsibility. This whole situation was his responsibility.

"Hey," he spoke as he got within a few feet of the younger man on the couch. "Hey, Neal." He reached a hand out and then hesitated. Normally he'd take him by the arm and him a shake, or he'd poke at his middle. This time, he realized that wasn't going to work given his injuries. He paused for another moment, and then reached for the foot that was propped up on his table. "Neal," he said, as he grasped the ankle, squeezing gently.

Neal's eyes flew open immediately at the touch, and he seemed to recoil instinctively. "Don't put it back on!" he cried out with a hint of panic, yanking his foot back with force, hard enough that his heel connected to the base of the couch with a thud.

Peter stared at him, a little startled at the reaction. His hand hovered for a moment and then he dropped it to his side. "Hey, you okay? What's the matter?"

Neal stared back, blue eyes wide. He was breathing deeply but then he seemed to start to calm as he took in his surroundings. He lifted the same foot again, peering at it as though checking for something.

"Neal," Peter said slowly, lowering his voice just slightly. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Neal dropped his foot to the ground. And just like that he was passive, looking tired but unperturbed. "Sorry, I guess I fell asleep."

"No shit," Peter told him, lifting one arm to rub at the back of his neck as he continued to observe the other man. He suddenly got the sense that Neal's mind was still working overtime. And not in a good way. He knew postponing talking to him about what would happen next could be contributing, but he couldn't discuss that before he knew. But he concurrently felt less annoyed about Neal pushing him earlier. "I was waking you to say you should go upstairs. Were you dreaming?"

Neal looked at him briefly before shifting his attention to behind him, at the TV. "I could go upstairs…" he began. "I should." His eyes scanned the TV screen and he said, "What is France," factually.

Peter peered behind him, viewing the television screen and the question posed by the game show. Country with the most time zones. He looked back at Neal. "France?"

"What is France," Neal corrected.

"Really?"

"Really."

Peter looked back at the TV screen. Sure enough, as the answer's appeared, the contestant that had written France was correct. He looked back at Neal. "How do you know that?"

"They have twelve," Neal replied.

"Fascinating. But how do you know that?"

Neal looked up at him from the television. "Something like that is a _need_ to know, Peter. If you're going to pull a—" he started and then stopped. "If you're going to provide _services_ in certain locations, you better have the time zones straight. Especially if you're meeting… acquaintances in other locations."

Peter studied him. "What'd you do in France that crossed time zones?" he asked suspiciously. "Never mind twelve of them."

"Peter, that's a broad question. Simply flying from one city to the next would cross time zones."

"Right…" Peter began. He studied him a moment longer, watching Neal's eyes go back to the game show. He watched him yawn indiscreetly. "Listen, why don't you take yourself and your trivia upstairs. Go to sleep in a real bed and not on my couch."

"It's a comfortable couch," Neal commented. But with that he started to rise from it, pushing himself up slowly.

"I know," Peter said vaguely. As he watched Neal stand and then turn to walk away, he cleared his throat. "Hey. Neal."

Neal turned slowly, as though apprehensive, but then he met his eye. "What, Peter?" he asked, tone even.

"Listen to me for a minute," Peter started.

Neal frowned slightly and then sighed in what sounded like frustration. "I'm not going to leave," he said. "If that's what you're going to say. You don't have to tell me that."

Peter paused, a little surprised by the statement. "Good. But that's not what I was going to say."

"I could," Neal persisted. "But I wouldn't."

"Good," Peter repeated.

"Then what?" Neal asked, slightly perplexed.

Peter gestured to the couch. "I don't know what that was when you woke up," he said. "But it was something." He noticed something flash in Neal's eye but it was too quick to read. "If it happens again, then tell me." He waited a beat and then said, "If you can't sleep, Neal, you can wake me up."

"I can sleep, Peter," Neal replied, a bit indifferently. "I was just sleeping."

"Neal." Peter gave a small shake of his head. "Just say you will." The memory of the night before, in the hotel, watching TV until they fell asleep, replayed in his mind. He'd had no clue what was bothering Neal then. But if Neal had been alone… That bothered him to think about. "Just say it."

Neal hesitated a moment longer, but then he just nodded. "Okay."

Peter nodded back. "Good."

Without further words exchanged, as Neal turned away, Peter turned himself to walk back towards the kitchen to his wife.


	42. Chapter 42

Peter wasn't certain what specifically woke him up later that night.

After about an hour of quality time just one-on-one with Elizabeth, catching up on their mutual weeks and simply appreciating each other's company after the time apart, they had gone to bed. The conversation of the evening had continued to briefly circle back to the topic of Neal as well; while the intent was to focus on each other that evening, it seemed they just couldn't avoid Neal being the center of their attention.

While feeling annoyed and worried himself about the whole situation, Peter felt the need to assure El that it would all work out as she started to express a little concern over what might happen to Neal next. He then tried to change the topic, to force them to focus them on other topics.

Once in bed, Peter found himself initially staring at the ceiling in the darkness, deep in thought, worries coming back to him. He tried to dismiss them, to focus on his breathing, eventually then slowly beginning to doze. But inevitably his thoughts started to creep back to him, and he found the initial descent to sleep abruptly interrupted.

This case was weighing on him.

Especially the unofficial aspects.

Neal, Neal, Neal.

Since when did his insomnia revolve around Neal?

He realized that was a silly question. It often did.

This 'almost-sleep' followed by then abrupt lucidity and worry happened enough times that he finally found himself sitting up in bed, frowning at his clock, and despite a longing look towards a slumbering Elizabeth, getting to his feet.

On his slow descent downstairs, stairs creaking below his bare feet, the first thing he noticed was the television on. He couldn't hear it right away, but could pick up on the flickering lights, and began to wonder if he had accidentally left it on.

He made his way the rest of the way down the stairs and started to approach the television, eyeing the old movie playing across the screen.

"Did I wake you?"

Peter slowly turned, slightly in surprise at the voice, and found Neal on his couch, once again in the same corner as earlier, though this time turned so that his legs could stretch out over the rest of the couch. He looked strangely surreal in the artificial lighting from the television screen.

"No," Peter told him, after a pause. "You didn't wake me." He frowned at him, feeling tired. He'd come downstairs with the intent to be sitting exactly where Neal was. Alone. He spotted one of the Chinese takeout containers on the coffee table, a fork sticking out of it. He looked back up at Neal. "Why are you up?"

"Why are _you_ up?" Neal replied in return.

Peter refrained from criticizing the response of a question to a question. "Probably the same reason as you," he said instead. "Couldn't sleep?" he asked, stepping further into the room towards the couch.

"I could sleep," Neal answered carefully. "I just wasn't sure my subconscious and I were on the same page about dream content. So I decided to let the television be the intermediary." With that he, turned his eyes back to the screen behind Peter.

Peter couldn't help but slightly roll his eyes at the roundabout and artistic way to describe what must have been bad dreams. The fact there were unsettling dreams didn't surprise him, nor the fact that Neal hadn't woken him to talk about it, despite having earlier given him permission to do so. Asking him to do so. Even if he was annoyed at his CI, he wasn't in favor of anyone struggling alone.

He stood there for a moment, glancing back toward the television as well, and then returned his gaze to Neal. Then he sighed in resignation and moved towards the couch. "Move," he directed.

Neal didn't respond verbally, but readily accommodated the request, shifting himself to sit up straighter and pulling his legs up through bending his knees. He tucked himself up further into the corner of the furniture, sock-covered feet curling closer to himself. A small grimace was the only indication that such movement was painful.

Peter took the space that was vacated, lowering himself onto the couch.

Silence passed between them at first, both pairs of eyes conveniently locked on the television.

Peter hadn't been prepared to speak to Neal again that night. He'd been nervous enough about handling the many topics they need to discuss tomorrow. In coming downstairs, he'd fully intended to zone out in front of the television until he could force himself to be tired enough to overcome his active mind and fall asleep. But now here they were.

He glanced over at Neal, who was quiet himself, focused on the television at least in concept, though Peter was fairly certain there were equally troubling thoughts running through the younger man's mind.

"Did you call Mozzie yet?" Peter asked, clearing his throat as he searched for an uncontroversial topic.

Neal turned his head, giving Peter a small frown. "No," he said slowly. "Why?"

Peter shrugged. "Thought he'd be your first call now that you're back," he replied. In the back of his mind, he was reminded that Mozzie nearly _was_ Neal's first call as he sat in a stolen vehicle. But he pushed that idea far out of his thought process for now to the best of his ability. "He was worried about you," he added.

Neal's face remained impassive. "I never charged my phone," he stated.

"Oh," Peter replied, a little surprised. Neal had commented on his phone's battery being dead the moment he received the device back. "Why not?"

Neal rubbed his hand against his leg and gave a half shrug, favoring his hurt shoulder. "I don't know. Maybe I wasn't ready to be officially back yet."

Peter didn't respond to that. He'd been more than ready to be back himself. He glanced back at the television briefly as he noticed Neal's attention turn there once again. "Maybe tomorrow," he offered.

"Maybe," Neal agreed without much emotion or conviction behind it.

Peter paused and then said, "I didn't hear you come downstairs." He nodded towards the takeout container. "Or scavenge."

"You weren't supposed to hear me," Neal responded.

Peter nodded slowly, pressing his lips together briefly. If Neal had needed him, surely he would have allowed himself to be heard. He considered that, but then tried not to overanalyze the behavior pattern. Neal's tendencies were to be discreet, and not seek help, even if he needed it. Shifting the topic, he said, "You know we're going to the office tomorrow."

"I figured."

"So you should try to sleep."

Neal nodded back, eyes locked to the television screen as the reflection of lighting danced over his features. "You should too."

"I should," Peter replied in agreement. "We both should." He paused again. "What were you dreaming of?" he asked. "Can you tell me?"

"Can't remember," Neal replied, a little too quickly.

Peter considered whether or not to call him out on the lie. He was silent at first instead, slowly turning his head to watch the television for a moment. It was a commercial for some pharmaceutical company, though Neal's eyes were locked to it like it was some fascinating action-packed vignette.

Another moment of silence passed between them.

It was then Neal that spoke first next.

"There's something else I should tell you," he said simply.

Peter suddenly felt a hollow pit in his stomach. That was _not_ a statement he'd been expecting to hear tonight. Not at all. In fact, his whole approach in sitting next to him currently was to avoid controversy. To have some sense of business-as-usual and to get them to bed before inevitably addressing their outstanding issues tomorrow. "Neal…" he started slowly, tone warning as he turned his head to view the other man.

"I should have told you to begin with," Neal persisted. His eyes remained on the TV and his tone stayed nonchalant. "I don't know why I didn't, actually."

Peter felt his frustration from earlier in the day building back up. His heart started to beat harder and he felt his hands clenching slightly. He'd successfully calmed himself over the course of the evening, and had been civil and patient, focusing on only what he needed to take care of tonight instead of getting back into the case or any of the other issues with Neal. Now all that went out the window. Now he started to feel that angry sensation build within him once again. The events at the end of the case loomed in front of him, ugly reminders, and he wondered what else there could possibly be.

"I don't know what this is you're about to tell me, Neal," Peter began, hearing his own tone turn reproachful, "but I swear to God…"

Neal now turned his head as well, meeting Peter's eye. "What do you mean?" he asked, sounding slightly startled at Peter's initial reaction.

"I thought you already told me everything, Neal," Peter began, unable to remove the annoyed tone from his voice. "I thought you were honest with me."

"I was," Neal began. "I was honest. But—"

"But, Neal?" Peter interjected. "But what?" He let out a deep sigh of aggravation. He was losing patience for these repeated situations. How many more times would he have yet another discussion with Neal like this? Would it never end? He suddenly realized there was a strong likelihood that he was going to have to deal with Neal tonight. There would be no rational, thought-through approach tomorrow. Not after this. "I'm getting tired of your excuses."

"What excuses?" Neal asked, looking somewhat puzzled.

"I'm in a hard enough spot with you as it is," Peter began stiffly, shaking his head. "Don't you get that?" He sighed, trying to maintain a voice of reason. "Neal, this case would have been a huge success. It was a sure thing. We'd be in a really good place right now. But instead you had to go and do something stupid at the end of it." He continued shaking his head. "So go ahead and tell me. What _else_ did you do?"

"What else did I _do_?" Neal echoed. "Peter, what are you talking about?"

"You said you have something to tell me, Neal," Peter replied impatiently. "So what the hell is it?"

Neal's brow furrowed. "Peter. I didn't _do_ anything."

"No?" Peter asked, exasperated. He leaned in closer to him, pointing a finger. "If there's something else that happened in the last forty-eight hours, Neal, then you better tell me now. I'm pretty much at my wit's end with you, and you're about to push me over the edge."

"Stop," Neal interjected. "You can't punish me for something I didn't even do." It was Neal's turn to be frustrated. He stared at his handler with his own look of exasperation. "Peter, I already told you _everything_ I know about the last forty-eight hours," he said, tone a bit annoyed and defensive. "This has nothing to even do with any of that." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "Is that really what you think? That I'm still hiding something?"

Peter stared back, silenced though his frustration was still not subdued. His hand dropped to his lap. "Then what is it, Neal?" he asked in exasperation. Until Neal told him what it actually was, he found it hard to not assume it was some other willful discretion or some sort of tiptoeing around the law about to be disclosed.

Neal's frown deepened. "I was going to tell you about Willy."

Peter felt a complete flip-flop in his gut at that comment. "Willy?" he echoed. "What about Willy?"

"About where he came from," Neal said. "That's what I wanted to tell you."

"Now?" Peter found himself feeling a bit taken aback by that response.

"Now," Neal repeated. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling, exuding exasperation. "Or never." He paused. "Maybe never."

"Neal," Peter started. While it started to subdue slightly, he still felt the burning sense of frustration, though he started to realize its unfounded placement. As the feeling lingered, he tried to mentally take a step back. He was too quick to anger. He realized it. He knew he had to work on it. "Okay. Go ahead."

"Go ahead before you prematurely accuse me of something else, you mean." Neal dropped the angle of his head to turn his view to Peter and make eye contact.

"Neal."

"Peter," Neal repeated, a little coldly.

Peter gave him a look. Neal stared back at him with icy blue eyes. Peter sighed. "Neal, you can't blame me. Considering the events of the last few days, when you're suddenly telling me cryptically that you have something else you need to tell me… What did you expect me to think?"

"The worst, obviously," Neal replied.

"That's not fair, Neal. Like I said, I'm in a tough spot with you. When you made your statement just now, you were vague. I assumed it was going to be something related to what just happened. Do you really blame me for that?"

Neal's expression remained stony.

Peter's conversation with El from earlier floated back to his mind. Her admonishment of his tendency to assume the worst started to proliferate in his thoughts. He was again doing exactly that. But he didn't really think he was to blame in this instance. Not after what they had just been through. "Do you need me to remind you how many times I've actually been right when I've suspected you of something?" he asked. After the words left his mouth, he reminded himself that he had no reason to need to defend himself. His suspicion was directly correlated to what Neal put him through. The situation that they were in. It was justified.

But the words were already out. And the question clearly seemed to aggravate Neal. He narrowed his eyes slightly and then turned his head back to watch the television. "Sometimes you've been wrong," he replied simply.

"Like this time," Peter replied, shrugging slightly. As it became Neal's turn to be annoyed, he felt his own resurgence of anger dwindle a bit more. In his view, he wasn't wrong to suspect that there was a more serious impending confession, but he could see how it could be hurtful. "I'll be the first to admit it. I'm not always right."

Neal simply raised his eyebrows, not responding, and not moving his vantage point from the television.

Peter let a moment pass and then tried again to spark the discussion forward once the movie on the screen was replaced yet again with a commercial. "So are you going to tell me?" He studied Neal for a moment in the artificial lighting, and could notice the younger man was working his jaw, still looking frustrated. "Neal." He repeated the name more firmly.

Neal turned his head, meeting his eye, but said nothing.

"I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions," Peter stated simply, earnestly. "Okay?"

Neal paused, brow furrowed as though considering the statement, and then just nodded. "Okay," he repeated.

"And I'll try not to be so quick to do that," Peter added. "Alright?"

"Alright," Neal echoed. He sounded reluctant. His eyes returned to the TV.

"Good?" Peter asked.

Neal paused but then cast a quick look Peter's way and said, "Okay."

"So Willy Loman," Peter started after clearing his throat, trying to encourage whatever this disclosure was meant to be. He was curious about the origin of Neal's alias. It was something he had tried to speculate the origin of on his own, but with little success. "What made you pick that name?"

Neal sighed. He shifted in his seat, wincing just slightly. "Well…" he started. "There were a few things going on before I created him, so I need to give you a little bit of that background…" He paused. "I was working under a different name at the time, and—"

"What name?" Peter asked.

Neal rolled his eyes slightly. "Not one you know, Peter…"

"Another one I don't know? Which one?"

"Trust me, you don't know it," Neal replied. "And this isn't about that name anyway."

"Fine," Peter conceded. He waved a hand at him. "Go ahead."

After a slight pause, Neal continued. "I was working with this guy… Warren. He owned his own gallery. He was an aspiring artist. I mean, he was probably in his fifties, and he'd been painting for most of his life, and he was good and all… But he was just never really formally recognized, I guess. He thought he was great though, and he was constantly reaching out to other galleries and symposiums to get himself featured. Most of them always declined, so he seemed to constantly be in a state of disappointment."

"What were you doing for him?"

"Odd jobs…" Neal started slowly. "He needed an assistant. Sometimes it was errands. Sometimes it was other stuff. He… he was pretty well connected. Despite his lack of actual artistic recognition, he did have access to a lot of other well known artists and other galleries."

"Which gave you access."

Neal gave a small smirk. "Exactly."

"Go on…"

"Well… The ironic thing… He was so critical of all these well-known artists. I mean, you'd think he was a professional art critic or something, the way he'd go on… Talking about their techniques, throwing out terms like 'overrated' and 'too commercial.' Meanwhile, he himself had never been featured anywhere close to their level. Honestly, I think he was probably just jealous. But he was a nice enough guy. Married. One kid, who was going to college, something he'd never done. He talked a lot about his son, and what he was majoring in. I think he wanted to be a lawyer or something. And he'd constantly talk about how one day, his art would be recognized and he'd pay off all his son's student loans, and his house, and take his wife on a vacation…"

"Okay…"

"So while working for him, I was also taking some classes."

"Classes?" Peter echoed, a little suspiciously. If there was one thing he knew, it was Neal, including his education history. "What kind of classes?

Neal gave him a slight look. "I knew you were going to jump in there," he said. "I was… unofficially taking some courses at NYU."

"At NYU…" Peter repeated.

Again, Neal rolled his eyes. "Yes, Peter. NYU." He paused. "You know, in those large lecture halls, honestly anyone can show up. You don't _have_ to be enrolled. You think the professor recognizes everyone?"

"What sort of classes?" As he asked the question, Peter expected the response to be something art history related.

"Literature," Neal replied. He raised a hand, rubbing at his jaw. "I started to realize that there was a lot I didn't know. I found myself more and more encountering paintings that had some sort of literary influence or allegory, and most of the time I'd never heard of the reference or even if I had, I'd never read it." He paused. "Even if I think about the artists I forged this week. Take Magritte. You know his piece called _Domain of Arnheim_?"

"I don't know it," Peter admitted.

"Edgar Allen Poe," Neal replied. "One of the quotes from the story is that 'no such combination of scenery exists in nature as the painter of genius may produce,'" he stated. "I'd never even heard of the story when I first saw a print of the painting." He cleared his throat. "So anyway, I realized there was a lot I should probably learn. So I found a course listing, and started to dabble. Once I was in, there was access to the class syllabus, and the library…" He gave a small smile. "And I may or may not have had a crush on one of the professors."

Peter didn't speak, waiting for Neal to continue. He found himself not surprised, but incredibly impressed by Neal's desire to acquire as much knowledge as he could. Neal's ability to quote and reference what he did learn always amazed him. It reminded him how smart Neal actually was. The kid was a sponge. How much knowledge was hidden within him? If only he'd always applied that intelligence to a lifestyle that was honest…

"Anyway," Neal continued. "So while I was taking some of these courses, there was one that was covering American literature, and for one of the lectures they were covering Arthur Miller and specifically this play, Death of a Salesman. I started to see a ton of similarities between the main character of the play and Warren. His biggest goal wasn't to save the world or to be a hero, or anything like that. It was really just to overcome the ordinariness of middle-class life. Warren thought he was this great artist, and couldn't understand why no one else saw that, after fifty years of painting. He felt like his work should have provided for him and his wife and son, and instead he was mostly in debt, rejected over and over again, getting more and more insecure. It was like I was observing a slow descent into depression or insanity… No matter what he did, he wasn't getting to the financial and social status that he wanted. That he thought he deserved."

Peter continued to simply listen. Neal's narration was careful and insightful, a look on his face as though he was remembering more than what the words were conveying.

Neal continued and then stated, "He died in a car accident."

"What?" Peter frowned. He hadn't been expecting that. He looked at Neal in question, but his expression remained somewhat passive. "What do you mean?" This was an abrupt ending to the story of Warren. He'd been expecting some sort of lavish tale of what happened next. But then he reminded himself of the ending of the work of Miller to which they were comparing Warren…

"Belt Parkway," Neal continued. "Only his car was involved. It was the middle of the night. He was gone before they even got him to the hospital."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Neal…"

"I'm sorry for his wife…" Neal replied. "For his son…" He made a face. "Not for me. After all, I was kind of _using_ the guy in a way… I told him what he wanted to hear but only because I wanted the connections."

"Did you take anything from him?"

"Take?" Neal echoed. "Like something tangible? No. Never. I never stole from him."

"Then you have nothing to feel sorry about."

"They ruled it an accident. But I don't know… I worked for him for about a year… And the few weeks before his death, he was… just a bit different. A bit darker. A bit more self-deluded, if that were possible…" Neal paused. "I don't know," he repeated. "If they hadn't ruled it an accident, and claimed he pulled the steering wheel… I wouldn't have really been surprised." He shook his head. "Anyway, after he passed… I needed a new start. And I needed a name."

"So Willy came to be," Peter replied.

"Yeah," Neal replied. "I know it's not really an exciting story or anything… But you had asked earlier in the case where that name came from… Like, why I picked it… And that's why… I guess that story resonated with me because it was so much like his story. And there were parts of Willy's beliefs that I sympathized with… So I just used that name. And while I was using that name was when I first got into contact with Jason and… and then the rest I guess you know."

"For the most part…" Peter slowly replied. A moment of silence passed between them. He leaned across the couch, reaching to pat Neal's thigh. "Thanks for telling me, Neal," he added. "Really, I mean it. I appreciate you telling me that."

"Versus telling you I robbed a bank, or whatever else you thought I was actually going to say," Neal replied sarcastically.

"Hey." Peter's parting pat to his thigh came down harder in a soft slap before he leaned back into his spot. "With you I never know…" he replied. He paused. He found himself pacified by Neal's story. Saddened almost. It reminded him of Neal's potential, his insight, and his connection with the human element. Neal was good, deep down, despite his record. Was knowing that enough? "I'm glad there's nothing else, Neal."

"Yeah…" Neal replied. His focus returned to the television. "Isn't it already a lot?"

"Yes. It's already a lot…" Peter agreed. As he watched Neal noticeably stiffen, he clarified. "I mean what you've been through, Neal." He paused, searching for the right words. "Take a step back for a minute. I know you're focused on the other stuff you did, but listening to your statement today, Neal… I'm sorry you had to go through that. This case was never meant to be like that."

"There are worse things," Neal responded. "I wouldn't say this is one of my favorite cases, but it could have been worse. I'll heal."

"You'll heal," Peter agreed. "And the case itself has a good ending."

Neal turned his head, raising his eyebrows skeptically. "Does it?"

"The case is solid against Messier and Jason," Peter responded to the look.

"And everything else?"

"Everything else isn't part of the case. And everything else is what we aren't talking about tonight," Peter replied. "Remember?"

"It's technically tomorrow…" Neal said dryly.

"So let's not be technical," Peter replied.

Neal didn't respond at first, nodding slowly. But then after a long pause and a sigh, he said, "I'm worried about what I might have left behind…" He spoke slowly, tentatively. "Or who might have seen me." He raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck. "Normally I'd never be worried about that. Because those are the sorts of details I control. But this time, I don't even completely remember."

"Neal…" Peter slowly shook his head. "If you—"

"Not tonight, I know, Peter," Neal replied. "I know," he repeated.

"No, that's not what I meant," Peter began. "If you _need_ to talk, we can… I just don't want to get into it again with you this late. But is that what's keeping you up?"

"I mean…" Neal started, drawing out the word. "I guess. Among other things."

"Other things like…" Peter trailed off in question.

"You."

"Like me," Peter repeated.

"Like lots of things."

Peter sighed. "Look, Neal…." he started. "We're not going to solve this tonight…"

"I know. And I'm not asking you to solve it. Especially tonight. El told me I shouldn't bring it up, and she's right, and—"

"And you guys talked about this?" Peter knew they had. It had contributed to some of the concern she had expressed for him later.

Neal hesitated. He stared at Peter, frowning slightly. "Not really in detail." He paused. "But you told her."

"You know by now that I tell El most things, Neal."

"Sure," Neal responded. "Honesty. Healthy relationships. All that stuff."

"All that _stuff_ ," Peter echoed.

"But she thought that if someone does happen to find out, that the fact that I may not have been acting in my full capacity could—"

"Could what?" Peter interjected. He sighed. "I thought we weren't going to get into this detail tonight, Neal... If something is keeping you up, let's address that, but the rest of it is for tomorrow."

"She said you admitted I was 'out of it' though," Neal persisted.

"Yet I thought when we talked about this the first time, we agreed that you had no excuse for what you did," Peter replied, a little exasperatedly. "You specifically said 'no excuses.'" He exhaled again and continued, realizing he was already giving in to having the discussion to an extent, simply by responding. But then again, maybe this was the aspect that was keeping him up. "But putting that aside for a moment, given the circumstances, fine. Anyone would agree you weren't in your usual state of mind. But a defense doesn't work that easily."

"Why not?"

"Well, there's a psychological assessment that would need to happen, Neal. And while I used to think otherwise, it's actually harder to qualify on than you think…"

"Why?"

"Well to start, Neal…. Most people under duress in that situation would have called 911 at the gas station or asked for help. You had finally gotten to where you could resolve it all with a phone call. Instead you robbed a woman and then escalated to carjacking…"

Neal winced slightly at the comment but then said, "Well, maybe that shows real insanity."

"Maybe, Neal…" Peter rolled his eyes slightly. "But let me repeat myself: we are not going to determine any of that tonight. Besides, you know an insanity plea can result in a court-required continued psychological care. You want that?"

"Not like they'll commit me. Not when it's temporary insanity."

Peter just shook his head. "You're speculating that any of this is going to be needed or relevant, Neal."

"I have to though. You even said there's a chance." He frowned. "Also, it wasn't premeditated," Neal added. "That should count for something."

"Neal…"

"I don't even really remember all of it anymore."

"Maybe that's good. Try not to tonight…" Peter persisted. "We're not about to build a case tonight." He exhaled tiredly. "It's way too late in the evening for anything like that. Are you not tired?"

Neal looked thoughtful for a moment, turning his head towards the television. His brow furrowed a bit. "Peter. If there is a case…" he started slowly. "Whose side are you going to be on?"

Peter's instinct was to dismiss the question. To once again tell Neal 'not tonight' and that it wasn't time to have this conversation. He was tired, and he wasn't prepared to decide what would happen next. He didn't even know what was going to be in their control. But as he started to formulate the words, he studied Neal's face and despite a profile perspective, with only the television's artificial light cascading over his features, he could tell he looked tense and troubled. "Neal," he started, cutting off his own initial response before it could leave his mouth. "Look at me."

Neal jaw stiffened for a moment, and then he slowly turned his head.

Peter waited until the blue eyes met his own brown. Then he said, "There's only one side you're on." He spoke firmly and raised his eyebrows. "It's our side. Got it?"

"Ours," Neal repeated slowly.

"Yes."

"What about right and wrong?"

"We will deal with that," Peter said, a little stiffly. "But you're on my side. Tell me you understand that."

Neal paused but then slowly nodded. "Okay."

"Good…" Peter cleared his throat. "So I'm drawing the line at that. That's it. We don't talk about this any more until tomorrow. Right now it's mindless television and then going back to bed. You bring up anything else and I'll smack you." He started to stand, stretching his arms over his head and yawning. "Television is the only thing I can handle right now. And ice cream."

"You're out of ice cream."

Now standing, Peter turned at that response, dropping his arms to his side almost in defeat. "What?" he questioned. "You're kidding me." He narrowed his eyes as he glared down at the younger man on the corner of his couch. "Don't tell me you finished it."

"I won't tell you I finished it," Neal replied simply.

Peter exhaled and rolled his eyes, sinking back down to sit on the couch. "I swear, Neal… Do I need to make a rule about you not eating the last of stuff in my house? This isn't the first time." He paused. "Wait, it's already a rule – called _common sense_."

Neal said nothing and stared straight ahead at the television screen, a small smirk spreading on his lips.

Peter leaned back into his couch with another sigh, unable to refrain from a small smirk himself. He acknowledged the annoyance he felt now was finally more of a business-as-usual, run-of-the-mill annoyance. That was a welcomed annoyance over the other more stressful triggers. He welcomed business-as-usual. He welcomed any topic that moved them away from the details of the case for tonight.

He longed to get back into their normal rapport. He hoped they would be allowed to do so. The list of what he needed to address at the office tomorrow made him want to sigh yet again.

Not tonight, he reminded himself. He had to adhere to the same rules he gave Neal, even mentally.

With that thought, another thought crossed his mind.

"Hey, Neal," he began.

Neal turned his head to look at him, expression a little cautious.

"There's something else you can tell me," Peter started.

"Like what…?" Neal asked, skeptical. "I told you. I didn't do anything else."

"Pre-dates this week. When did you fly a private jet?"

Neal narrowed his eyes just slightly, pressing his lips together. Then he slowly replied, "Why?"

"So you did. When?"

"How do you even know about that?"

"Apparently you mentioned it to Jones once." Peter shrugged. "Came up when we realized your mode of transportation on the way to Vermont."

Neal continued to frown.

"So…" Peter persisted. "I presume you've got a story."

"I do have a story," Neal admitted. "But I'm not sure you're going to like it."

"Won't be the first time. I'll add it to the list."

Neal looked a bit alarmed. "So there _is_ a list?"

"What?" Peter replied, confused at the response to his figurative statement. Then he shook his head. "Just tell me the story. How'd that come about? I don't think I had 'pilot' in my repertoire for you."

Neal looked a little hesitant, as thought the wheels were turning in his head on the pros and cons of telling the story. "I'd like to point out that these events happened before I knew you."

"All your typical caveats and disclosures are noted. Mine as well. Now spill."

Neal sighed, glancing towards the television briefly before he started to speak. "Fine. But then I'm going to bed. No more stories."

"That's the plan," Peter replied.

Neal rolled his eyes. But with that, he slowly started to explain a situation he'd gotten into years before. "It started with a poker game…" he said.

Peter listened, storing the additional information in his mental Caffrey files. He yawned slightly, relieved to be beyond "case" talk for the night.

* * *

During the next morning at the Burke's, events took place as they would any other morning that Neal woke up under their roof. It happened often enough that there was a certain course of routine that they were silently used to. This morning was no different despite the previous days' events. Waking, showering, dressing, coffee, eating. All while moving around each other in some sort of symbiotic understanding that worked for them. In any dialogue, Peter and El did most of the talking, moreso about their schedule for the day, such as to coordinate who would be home when, who would let out Satchmo, etcetera.

Despite that routine, and the usual morning interchange, Peter didn't feel back to usual. Peter wished for a sense of normalcy to wash over him at some point while he got ready that morning. With success on this case looming in the near distance, he wished he could focus on that. But in a process that would normally be nearing a call for celebration, it was tainted. It was skewed by everything else that was going on and could possibly still happen.

Part of his late night discussion with Neal had tugged them back into that sense of normal. But he also reminded himself that most of that exchange was a forced procrastination of the inevitable.

This morning, he could no longer procrastinate. It was time to be strategic.

It was going to be an interesting day. Peter tried to continue to heed El's advice, to take it moment by moment. He couldn't predict everything, so he had to manage it in piecemeal. But while doing that, he also had to be able to anticipate what would happen. To be proactive and not reactive. To protect Neal.

After leaving the Burke residence, the first stop that morning was to take Neal home. While Peter was anxious to get to the office, he couldn't expect Neal to be dressed in his old sweats nor the attire he'd been in the earlier day from the hospital. He knew getting Neal into his own wardrobe would help to get Neal's frame of mind back on track. To start to feel like he was 'officially' back.

When they arrived at June's, Neal was predictably showered with affection from the older woman, who expressed concern and worry over him, exuding a genuine motherly and nurturing presence over Neal that reminded Peter, despite skepticism in the early days, once again how fortunate it was that Neal lived there. He watched Neal downplay the attention and insist he was 'absolutely fine,' assuring June that there was nothing out of the ordinary. During this, his expression remained with an unwavering smile, even as she embraced him tightly, unaware of his injuries. He remained in his unscathed, nonchalant character act throughout it, though Peter could see the small beads of sweat starting to form at his brow.

Upstairs, behind closed doors, Peter told him pointe blank with a bit of reproach that he should be honest with June about his injuries. Neal quickly dismissed the idea. "She shouldn't have to worry," he responded. "Besides, I'll be feeling better before long anyway. She doesn't have to know."

While he wanted to push back, because after all he'd been _shot_ , Peter accepted that, reminding himself it was Neal's decision who he shared his medical history with, although with reservation. He was also a little surprised Neal was passing up a chance to get special treatment. He focused instead on the fact they were there for one purpose that morning, and so he left Neal to his wardrobe as he resigned himself to the couch.

In short order, Neal completed his transformation, and returned to Peter donning a crisp white shirt and dress pants, in the process of sliding on his suit jacket. Peter watched what was clearly a painful process, wincing himself at Neal's change in expression as he, with what seemed to be quite some effort, got his arm through the sleeve on his injured side.

"You know, Mr. Fancy Pants, that you don't _have_ to wear a suit…" Peter told him, glancing down at his own suit. He looked back at Neal, wondering if he should have been clear about that upfront. "Is that comfortable?"

"Like a second skin," Neal responded, voice just a little bit stiff. Once again, his brow shined with a thin veil of sweat from the exertion.

Peter looked down at his shoes. "And your feet?"

"Peter, they're fine."

"They don't hurt?"

Neal sighed. "They do, Dr. Burke, but they—"

"So why don't you wear sneakers?"

Neal shot him a look of disdain. "Sneakers, Peter? Really? Because sneakers clearly go with a Brunello and—"

"And I just said you didn't have to wear a suit!" Peter exclaimed in slight exasperation.

"I'm already wearing the suit," Neal responded. Then stubbornly he added, "And after the effort it took to get it on, I'm going to keep wearing it. Maybe for a few days like you did with your suit in Vermont." He then made a face. "How did you do that, by the way?"

Peter ignored the comment. "So you're sure you want to wear a suit?"

"Yes."

Peter just eyed him warily. "Fine." Despite the frustrating discussion, dressed like this, Neal looked like himself on a typical day. And Peter was relieved at that. It was also at that moment he realized that neither of them had mentioned the case to each other that morning. Neal hadn't once asked what was going to happen that day. He didn't question going to the office. He didn't question anything. Despite all of his late night insecurities, he'd been relatively quiet once daylight hit. Peter weighed on this for a moment before he simply said, "OK. Let's go."

In the car, Neal became uncharacteristically quiet again. The ride from June's house to the office was one they had done countless times together. Despite this, Neal was gazing out the window as if taking in the route for the first time, absorbing in all the scenery. He figured Neal hadn't had much scenery recently. A basement, a hotel, a federal office, the Burke residence…

Peter didn't mind the quiet. He had enough discussion going on with himself inside his mind. He still had a lot he needed to decide, independent of Neal's input.

It wasn't until they were relatively close to the office that Neal finally started to speak.

"So, Peter…" Neal began, hand going to the car radio, switching the frequency from AM to FM and fiddling with the knobs.

Peter waited, eyeing the distracted hands on his radio briefly and resisting the urge to smack the hand away from the dials. He knew from experience that despite Neal's currently casual, unconcerned tone that this was nervous energy.

"If this whole thing does go south," Neal continued, tone a bit detached, "and they do think I'm responsible for certain events— and I know I _am_ responsible, so before you say that, Peter, just let me—"

"We're not talking about this."

"It's tomorrow. You said we'd talk about it today. And I'm not being technical now. It's today."

"We'll talk about what you _did_. And what we are going to do about it. Not whatever it is you're about to speculate about. Like last night. Don't do that."

"Just hear me out, Peter."

"Where are you going with this, Neal?" Peter tried not to get frustrated. He was determined not to get this frustrated so early in the day, before even getting to the office… They'd been off to such a good start.

"I had a dream last night after we went upstairs, and it actually gave me an idea." He paused. "To be honest, I actually have a lot of my good ideas through dreams first, believe it or not."

"Is that so…" Peter replied, skeptical though also curious from the introduction whether Neal's dreams from the night before may have turned from bad to decent… Maybe he had helped. "And how many of those ideas are constructive to society?"

"Define constructive," Neal said. "And actually, define society. They're certainly mostly constructive, but I guess to _whose_ society would be a relative question since my _personal_ interpretation would be—"

"Okay, enough conjecture. Stop. What was the dream?" As he asked, Peter wondered where he could possibly be going with this. Neal never shared dreams. He rarely admitted to dreams, particularly ones that bothered him.

"In my dream," Neal persisted with surprisingly little persuasion needed to talk, "I actually got arrested. For all of it. For everything I told you."

Peter frowned, keeping his eyes on the road. His stomach turned slightly. In the background, the music changed every few seconds, intermittent with commercials as Neal distractedly flipped through the radio stations. Where was this going to lead to…

"And they knew everything," Neal continued. "They had video, they had fingerprints, I left stuff at the scene… I mean, you name it. They had it."

Peter resisted sighing out loud or asking him to stop. The whole idea of what Neal had done still didn't sit well with him, and it was combined with his own nerves around the fact that what Neal was describing _could_ happen. This was still a potential outcome of all this. This is what had kept Peter up last night. Especially after their discussion about sides and speculation…

"Neal, this doesn't sound so promising," Peter began, curbing his own troubled feelings to keep his tone benign. Again, determined not to get frustrated so early… "Why are you telling me this?"

"I know, the intro doesn't sound so promising, and that's true. I figured you'd say that, but listen," Neal continued. "So in the dream, after this happens, I actually come up with a brilliant explanation for all of it."

"An explanation…" Peter echoed skeptically, keeping his eyes on the road. "Brilliant no less."

"It's a perfectly reasonable explanation. In fact, I'm disappointed I didn't think of it earlier," Neal added.

"Why – so you could have used it on me?"

Neal scoffed slightly. "Peter…" he began, stressing the name. "Of course not."

Something about the glib tone of that response, even though it was very much _Neal_ and he was relieved to start to hear Neal _be_ Neal, perturbed him a bit. He gripped his hands on the steering wheel. "So what was the brilliant idea, Neal…?" he asked, with a bit of reluctance. Did he really want to know?

"It's actually pretty basic," Neal continued. "So after I get arrested in the dream, they obviously have some questions… And as I start to tell them what the plan was, they begin to understand."

"What do you mean what the plan was?"

"So while I was undercover, I obviously would have found out that Messier was involved with law enforcement. I also would have found out that he had a local presence and potentially a local support system," Neal replied. "I wouldn't know exactly who he was connected to, but that anyone could be a possibility. He—"

"You didn't know that. You didn't know he was involved in law enforcement."

"Can I talk?"

"Only if you stop with this," Peter replied, finally reaching over to push Neal's hands away from the incessantly turning radio dials. He rapped his fingers against the knuckles that hovered there. "Enough with that."

Neal's hands dropped to his lap. "So in my dream, because I knew of this potential risk of being compromised if I spoke to or confided in the wrong people," he continued, "then I had a very good reason when I got to the gas station to _not_ want to just simply tell them I needed help or to just call 911. You said that a normal person under duress would just call 911, but I had good reason why I _wouldn't_. One that _isn't_ insanity."

"Neal…"

"I know that tone Peter. And you're not hearing me. It makes sense. If I truly thought that the only way to ensure getting the appropriate authorities involved and aware of what happened and also where I was, and if I had to do that while guaranteeing that Messier and Jason would not have an opportunity to manipulate the situation, then I acted in the only way possible."

"You could have just asked to make a phone call…"

"No. Not if I didn't know their potential connection to them."

"So this was your dream."

"Yes," Neal affirmed. "And it worked. In the dream, what seemed like truly the end turned into an acknowledgment that I had no choice. That I acted as anyone else would have in the same situation, and no charges were formally made."

"In your dream," Peter repeated.

"Yes…"

"A fabricated story," Peter said. "So your brilliant dream is an account of perjury."

"I don't think I was under oath in the dream."

Peter sighed. "Neal…"

"It might not be fabricated either," Neal said. "Maybe that's what I _was_ thinking at the time. Who's to say I wasn't? I told you, my memory of the events is… not completely clear."

"Did you know Messier's connection with law enforcement before you found out at the office after we found you?"

"No," Neal admitted. "I don't think so."

"So you answered your own question then…"

"But it's all like a blur now…"

"Neal, we are two minutes from the office. Why you had to tell me this dream, I have no idea, but it's not really helping because –"

"Because," Neal interjected, a little insistently. "It is helping, Peter. I think this is a valid explanation. More than valid." He exhaled, a bit impatiently. "I don't know what's going to happen once we get into that building, Peter, but if I need to have a response for what I did…"

"Didn't we talk about this last night, Neal? And what side I'm on?"

"Yeah, Peter, but you've also said it might not be _up to you._ And if it's not—"

"Neal. Nothing happens in that building without me."

"Not true."

"Neal, if—"

"No, Peter. That's not guaranteed. And this explanation makes sense. If I could even say that we prepared ahead of time for this scenario, that we agreed that if there was any chance of compromise, that I would make sure that I would call you and only you, and no one else, then—"

"Neal…" Peter found himself nearly at the parking garage. They were minutes from entering the office building.

"If I could say we prepared," Neal repeated. "That this was the plan we had… It holds together."

"You're asking me to lie for you?"

"Not lie. Peter. You had lots of contingency suggestions. Surely one of them would have been similar to this."

"Actually no. Not at all Neal. I can't recall any involving what you did…"

Neal sighed. "Only because you didn't think of that particular scenario. But it does make sense. Right?"

Peter didn't respond. Instead he focused on driving, and staying level-headed. He also wasn't exactly sure how to respond. He was weighing in his mind what was a more realistic explanation – Neal being out of his mind in the moment and reverting to extreme measures to escape- measures that weren't representative of his true intentions or his nature- versus this newly constructed alternative scenario that was a basis of a dream. This explanation that came down to a fabricated predetermined order to contact Peter and only Peter.

"You're not saying anything," Neal remarked.

"Because I'm thinking," Peter answered honestly. They reached the parking garage and he pulled into the entrance.

"Thinking what?" Neal persisted.

"That you should be quiet," Peter replied, "and stop planning for something that might not happen. Like I told you last night."

"But it could happen the moment I walk through the door, Peter."

"Trust me. I'd have gotten a phone call, Neal."

"Maybe you wouldn't have told me," Neal said, a little sullenly. "You knew I wouldn't come here with you if you told me something like that would happen."

Peter exhaled in exasperation, wishing he could pull over but unable to do that as he maneuvered down the single-lane curved entrance of the garage towards the actual underground parking. "You're lucky my hands have to be on the wheel right now, Neal…" he said instead, tone reproachful. "First you ask me to lie for you, now you're accusing me of setting you up."

"I didn't accuse you," Neal objected.

"You just did." Peter sighed. "Neal. Do you not trust me? Do you think that I wouldn't tell you something like that?"

"No. I do, Peter… I do. I trust you," Neal replied. "You would."

Slightly appeased at the response, Peter glanced over at Neal as the roadway straightened and caught him distractedly nodding. He then returned his focus to the garage to drive to the usual section he parked. He focused on finding an empty space.

Once he was able to pull into a spot and to shift the car's gear into park, Peter turned his full attention to Neal. "We talked through this last night," he stated firmly.

"I know." Neal continued to look straight ahead, though the view ahead was merely a gray concrete wall.

Peter paused. "Neal, you've often said there's a lot of stuff you've done that I don't know about."

"Peter. I'd give you more credit than that…"

"I'm sure. But you know you've said it. My only point is that all of that stuff is always at risk of being discovered, and you don't walk around speculating about it. You don't spend your time worrying about it. Not like this."

"Because enough time passes," Neal replied. "If you don't know about something after a week or so, I figure then you're probably not going to know. My theory holds so far."

Peter rolled his eyes. "That might not be the safest assumption…" he replied. "Or admission. Regardless, do me a favor for now. Let's just focus on closing this case, Neal. Okay?"

Neal didn't look convinced, but finally said, "Fine."

"You said you trust me."

"I do."

"Good. So let's go. It's a day at the office. You're back. That's it. If anything else happens, we'll handle it together."

Neal looked slightly uncertain, but nodded.

"You and me," Peter stated.

"You and me," Neal repeated.

A short while later, Peter found himself in the doorway of his boss's office. He cast one more glance behind him, down across the bullpen, locating Neal at his desk. Despite Neal's slight uneasiness in the car, upon nearing the office entrance, he had quickly returned to his more confident self. Once he was in the elevator, and by the time they reached the floor, Peter was certain that no one who encountered him now would even imagine anything other than the usual self-assured, loquacious version of Caffrey that they were accustomed to.

Turning back to his boss's office, he took a deep breath before knocking his knuckles against the doorframe.

Hughes looked up from the paperwork he'd been focused on. "Peter," he said, giving a tight smile. He rose from his desk and walked around it to approach Peter and extend his hand. "Welcome back."

Peter stepped into the office, accepting the brief handshake, appreciating the gesture. "Thank you, Sir. It's good to be back."

"Great work these last few days," Hughes continued. "I was a little skeptical of what this whole exercise was going to bring us in the end, but you made the right call. Sending Caffrey undercover was the best move we could have made in this case. Speaking of Caffrey, where is he anyway? I heard he was injured. Shot in fact…"

"He's at his desk," Peter responded. "And yes, unfortunately he was… But it could have been much worse. He's actually doing quite well… Physically."

"Well, that's good… That's good to hear. I'll have to walk down and thank him myself," Hughes continued. "Diana has me fully caught up on the case, and I know we still have some work to do to close this out, but this was nothing short of a success. And that's due to both of you."

"Thank you, Sir." He paused, watching as his boss walked back around his desk to return to his seat. "Has there been any contact from the Vermont office today?"

"Not that I'm aware," Hughes looked up. "Diana said they were pretty supportive?"

"Yes," Peter replied. He had his own slight grievances against certain aspects of that 'support,' but at the end of the day, they had been critical in finding Neal and generally supporting the case. Even despite the nuances of the questioning they put Neal through, there was nothing worth a formal complaint. "They were helpful. They extended their resources to us."

"Good," Hughes replied. He picked up a pen from his desk, tapping it lightly against the surface of the furniture. "Let's lock down this case as soon as we can, Peter. The US Attorney's office wants to discuss this as soon as you're ready."

Peter nodded. "Good. I'm happy to move it alone as fast as we can. Trust me, I'm relieved to be at the paperwork stage of this, Sir," Peter replied.

"I'm sure. Speaking of paperwork…" Hughes began. "You're probably going to get a call today or tomorrow regarding Caffrey."

"Sir?" Peter frowned slightly.

"He was shot, Peter. And apparently fired a weapon himself, according to the report I read this morning," Hughes replied. "In addition to being held hostage… Like it or not, as you know the Bureau takes that pretty seriously, especially since he's not an agent." He paused. "After the initial paperwork, they'll likely ask him to speak to Nancy."

"Nancy," Peter repeated with slight skepticism.

"I know your thoughts on psychologists, Peter, but—"

"Mine?" Peter scoffed. "Don't worry about mine. What about Neal's?" He shook his head. "Really, Sir, unless you want to waste Nancy's time…"

"You know it's standard procedure after something like this," Hughes responded dryly. "You'll have more of an issue if you try to get him an exception."

Peter simply exhaled.

"And make sure he realizes that as well… There's also the medical report," Hughes continued. "Like I said, lots of paperwork. Anyway, you'll likely get a phone call today." He cleared his throat. "It's good to have you and Caffrey back."

Neal sat stiffly at his desk, intently studying his computer screen. After the initial attention he received in returning to the office, which he skillfully deflected for the most part, he was now left to his own devices, and it felt strangely foreign but comforting at the same time to be back at his spot in the bullpen. The last few days were a stark contrast to the familiar office setting, and now that he was back in a suit and surrounded by structure, that experience seemed to be distancing itself more and more, except for that distinct part of it that had happened before calling Peter… That part, moreso the implications than the details, was still burning brightly within his memory.

His cell phone buzzed impatiently on the desk, a couple inches away from where his hand manned the computer mouse. A glance down at the device displayed Mozzie's name and several missed messages.

Since finally charging the phone and powering it back up, he had expected to find an accumulation of missed calls and messages. He had found exactly that, and only scanned peripherally through the series of messages from Mozzie, some less cryptic than others, before texting his friend back.

Without knowing quite what to say, Neal's initial text, after writing and re-writing a few times, simply read, ' _The Eagle has landed_.'

Mozzie's response was immediate. _'10-20?'_

Neal stared at the text and then glanced back at his computer screen. He wondered if Mozzie would be disappointed in the response that he was back in his humdrum surroundings of a federal office building. After all that….

The phone buzzed again. _'What's your 20?'_

"I knew what you meant the first time," Neal muttered to himself. He longed to see his friend, his closest confidante, but also wondered how the man would react at Neal's description of the last few days. He imagined he was going to get a guilt trip that was a 180 spin from the guilt trip driven by Peter's reaction. Mozzie would likely be equally disappointed in Neal, but from a completely different perspective. Neal had literally had freedom at his fingertips, and hadn't taken it.

Neal picked up the phone and wrote back. _"Suits now. Meet me tonight."_ He then dropped the phone and returned his attention to the computer.

His search engine was filled with the results of his multiple search iterations of phrases to return information about recent car-jackings in Vermont. First he had stared at a calendar, figuring out what the day of the week and date of the month was, grounding himself in the present to figure out where he had been and when.

He was eager to find the account from the newscast that he had almost been able to see at the hotel that morning. Surely that would describe the most recent events and potentially what they had in terms of suspects or information for the public to look out for…

He clicked through the links, scanning the information, most of the initial articles coming up from time periods outside of his scope.

He tried his search again, changing the words of the search again.

He tried again and again.

With interchangeable typing and clicking the mouse, he found himself scanning rapidly through articles that didn't seem to indicate anything from the past few days.

He felt like he'd been through dozens and dozens of articles already. But he also knew he had to exhaust the search before he could even start to feel comfortable at what might be out there.

He sighed in frustration, clicking 'back' on the browser window yet again.

"Looks like you're back to work full-force already."

Neal quickly minimized the browser on his screen and slid his hands back from the keyboard and mouse. He looked up at Peter's voice and smiled. "Of course," he said.

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Whatcha looking at?"

Neal shrugged slightly, shoulder resisting the movement with a sharp stab of pain. He swallowed back the lie that was quick to form on his tongue, and instead said, "Just catching up." That was benign and vague enough.

"You want to catch-up in my office?"

Neal tilted his head to the side slightly. "I feel like you're not actually asking."

"I see your perception skills are back," Peter replied with a smirk. He made a small gesture with his hand. "Come on."

Neal reluctantly pushed his chair back and started to get to his feet. He watched Peter turn and start to walk away. He then glanced down at his desk. His eyes scanned the screen of his computer, itching to continue to search the web for any of his leaked secrets.

His eyes then settled on the small white Socrates bust. He pursed his lips, reaching to settle his hand over it, material smooth and cool under his touch.

He needed any luck he could get at this point. Peter had been surprisingly reasonable in recent hours, but he knew that meant nothing.

"Neal."

He looked up, letting his hand slip away from his desk as he took a step away, following the voice to where Peter stood several feet away, now turned to face him once again.

He had just about caught up with him as Jones happened to be approaching from the other side of the floor, a thick folder in his hand.

"Hey, Boss," Jones greeted, causing the man to turn his attention from Neal to the other agent. "Welcome back."

"Hey, Jones." Peter smiled. "Thanks for holding down the fort here this last week."

"Of course," Jones replied with a small flash of a smile. He nodded towards Neal. "Hey, Caffrey. Nice job this week. You doing good?"

Neal nodded back and gave a tight smile. "Yes. Glad to be back. I'm good."

"You saw quite a bit of action," Jones persisted. "Not your typical White Collar case."

"El says cases like this make her reconsider White Collar," Peter said with a chuckle.

"Tell me about it." Jones turned his attention back to the senior agent. "Here's the research you requested," he said, offering the folder.

Peter accepted the folder. "Good. Thanks for doing this so quickly."

"What's this for anyway?" Jones asked with a frown. "Find a new case while you were up there?"

"No…" Peter replied slowly. "Just doing a little fact-checking for a good friend of mine."

"Okay. Well let me know if you need anything else," Jones answered. "And again, welcome back."

"Will do. Thanks, Jones." Peter watched the other agent head towards the other side of the floor and then turned his head back to Neal. "Alright, let's go."

Neal glanced across the room at the other agents buzzing around the floor, as he followed Peter towards his office. All of these agents were oblivious to what he had done. To what might happen. To them, this was a normal day.

Once inside Peter's office, the routine was the same as any other day prior to this whole experience. It was like it took place from a required protocol.

"Sit," came the instruction once they were within the doorway. Peter held back within the entrance as Neal passed by him, their shoulders just barely brushing each other.

Then once he closed the door, Peter made his way around his desk, taking his seat.

Neal first stood behind his intended chair, simply observing the office that he hadn't been in for a few days. Before the imminent second request to "sit" came, he moved to lower himself into the chair, body aching as he did so.

He looked across the desk. Perhaps this was it. Peter had been reluctant to talk at his house about what specifically happened next. He'd postponed it until today. And while walking through the office doors hadn't been proceeded by handcuffs and the reading of Miranda rights as Neal's dreams had suggested, he knew it was early enough in the day that anything could happen.

Before he could speculate further, Peter dropped the folder in his hand across the desk, in front of Neal.

Neal stared down at the folder, frowning slightly. Then he looked back up at Peter. "What is it?"

"Take a look, Neal." Peter jutted his chin towards the folder. "Go ahead. Bet this is what you were actually trying to look up a few minutes ago."

Neal felt a little wary, unknowing what the folder in front of him contained. Last time he'd flipped through some folders, it hadn't all been what he'd expected. Like finding a picture of Adam, deceased. But he also knew that's not something Peter would put in front of him again.

"Go ahead," Peter repeated.

Neal sighed and reached to flip open the folder. When he did, on top of the stack of papers he found in front of him the print-off of a news article. Behind that, as he flipped through, a police report. Then more of the same behind. A consistent theme was evident.

"What is this?" Neal asked. He continued to flip through. The subject of the articles and police reports were familiar. Car theft, jackings, and vandalism in Vermont.

"You can see what it is," Peter replied.

"When did you ask for this?" Neal asked, a little surprised.

"I called Jones yesterday."

"Did you look at it yet?" Neal asked. This was much more detailed than what he had been able to find in his own search engine exercise, though that had been only a half-hour attempt. He noted the dates of the reports. They were all within the last few weeks.

"No," Peter answered slowly. "Neal, you saw him just hand it to me now. This is hot off the press. So I didn't look at it, but judging by Jones lack of reaction…" He shrugged. "We'll have to go through it. Or rather, maybe you have to go through it."

Neal swallowed, feeling somewhat grateful. He tucked the papers back into the folder and closed it. "I will," he said. "But what if it's just that nothing was reported yet?"

"Unlikely," Peter replied. "But possible." He paused. "We can run the same search for a little while just in case."

Neal nodded. He looked down at the folder and slowly ran his finger across the edge of it. "You said this was for your friend," he said factually.

"You're right," Peter replied deliberately. "I did."

Neal paused. He then hesitated but then asked, "So you called me your friend?" He looked up.

"I called you my good friend."

Neal felt small blush rising and tried to downplay it. He stared back down at the folder. "I haven't felt that way," he replied honestly.

"Neal…" Peter replied with a small sigh. "Do you not get it by now?" He shook his head. "You messed up. There are repercussions to messing up. We'll deal with that. And hopefully I'm the only one that has to deal with that. In which case, that doesn't change anything between us. Not at the core. You can trust me. I told you it wouldn't change our arrangement. And that includes being friends."

Neal nodded at the folder. He felt a weird sensation in his belly. He wasn't sure how to interpret it. "Alright."

"This takes me back to the talk we had right before this whole case even escalated, Neal. We were talking about you and being part of the team. A team works together. Or it doesn't work at all. Remember?"

"I remember," Neal told the folder. "You say it all the time."

"You give me a reason to say it all the time."

"Peter."

"You do… Anyway. On this case, despite what you did, eventually you called me," Peter replied. "And you did it before your situation turned into what could have been the end for us. The real end. And it matters that you called me."

"I should have called you immediately." Neal noticed a slight smudge on the corner of the folder. It was maybe coffee. He wondered if Jones had done that, or whether this was a folder that had been repurposed. What other secrets might have lived inside it in a previous life? "I know that."

"You should have," Peter agreed. "But you didn't."

"I didn't," Neal acknowledged.

"But you did call me in time," Peter replied. "And you always should call me, Neal."

Neal nodded. "I know." Part of him was comforted by Peter's statement that things wouldn't change. And the words so far weren't from anger. But he knew this wasn't close to being the end of the conversation. Peter was repeating things he should already know. That he did know. The repeat of those things sometimes were the precursor of the worst discussions. And repercussions.

Peter leaned forward, resting his arms against his desk. "I think that even putting aside your physical injuries for a moment, Neal, that you've felt like crap the last couple of days. Am I right?"

Neal made a face. "Well… I guess."

"And if I continue to be right, I think you've felt that way because you feel what you did was wrong. And you feel that inside you. The guilt. The conscience. All those things I know you hate to talk about or to admit you have a semblance of. But it's all those feelings I know you have. Because you're good, Neal."

Neal didn't respond. He didn't like this conversation. He favored the possibility of disappearing through the door behind him. But he sat there, motionless to the best of his ability, and tried to still the leg he felt starting to bounce. At least there was no yelling. At least yet.

"You told me you wouldn't run," Peter continued. "When we started this case, before I even fully agreed you'd actually go with Jason. You told me you wouldn't run, and I believed you."

Neal nodded courteously. He didn't have any contribution to make to this conversation. He hadn't run. Not in the end.

"And honestly, I don't know what I would've done if I were you, in that situation," Peter said. "Neal, whether or not you've fully appreciated it, or maybe you'd rather just downplay it, you were chained in a basement for three days. Enslaved basically. I'm not immune to that fact. Trust me, I'm not. And that's where I feel guilty."

"Don't, Peter," Neal responded. He shook his own head. "I wanted this undercover scenario. I knew it would work. But I also knew the risks. I knew Jason."

"You did and yet you didn't," Peter replied. "Neal, if we knew this was a scenario, we'd have had another way of tracking you. We had no idea this would happen. Neither did you."

A moment of silence passed.

"When you finally got free," Peter started, "then yes, I wish you'd just called me, Neal. And, yeah, I'm angry and annoyed that you didn't as a first decision. I'm not as angry as when you first told me, but it isn't just an easy thing to move past, Neal. Your first instinctual thought was escape. And honestly, dammit, I don't know if that's a normal instinct that someone would have, all things considered, or it's you being you. Because I'd think normal would be to call me."

"But I did call you."

"You did," Peter replied. "Eventually you did." He pressed his lips together briefly. "But not right away, Neal. And I don't cover things up, Neal. I don't bury evidence."

"There is no evidence." Neal tapped his finger on the folder.

"Officially. Until we find out otherwise," Peter answered. "But you know I don't operate that way. Not when I know that crime has been committed. I take the crime officially. Except this time."

Neal paused, as though interpreting the response. Then he said, "For me."

"Yes. For you," Peter repeated. "You need to understand the profoundness of that Neal, and not take it lightly. I'm taking yet another chance on you."

Neal nodded. "I know." He tried to ensure that the earnestness he felt was in the tone of his words. "I'm sorry."

"And don't give me a reason that will make me reconsider. Because you won't like it."

"I know."

"I currently believe you're worth the investment," Peter replied. "Even if I'm doing something against what I would normally do. What I would theoretically do. You make it a bit less black and white."

"What if someone finds out?" Neal asked.

Peter frowned. "Meaning what?"

"What if this," Neal tapped at the folder again, "gets another report added. And it's me."

"Well, there's nothing we can do about that…" Peter responded. "And we'll tackle that if it happens. But for today, that's not the case."

"That we know."

"And we can only live by what we know, Neal."

"Mozzie says we should live for everything we don't yet know, Peter," Neal replied.

"Mozzie, your guru… I swear, whenever you begin with 'Mozzie says,' Neal…" Peter replied, shaking his head. "But putting his foolhardiness aside for a moment, something tells me his principle applies to something a bit more opportunistic and advantageous. Not a speculative guilt-ridden hypothesis of defensives."

"Fair."

"If something changes, we'll deal with it, Neal. And I emphasize the _we_. I mean it. When I get mad, that doesn't change that. I'm on your side here."

"Okay." Neal swallowed. "Thanks, Peter."

"But like I said, don't make me change my mind," Peter persisted. "Getting mad is one thing, but you're skating on the edge here, Neal. I can't have any more of these situations."

Neal nodded. "I know." He pushed at the folder on the desk. "So that's it, then?"

"That's it?" Peter repeated. "You mean you think you're getting off that easy?"

Neal looked up, frowning.

"Don't give me that look," Peter objected. "Neal, you're the one that broke the law. And I know the circumstances, and I acknowledge that, and that's what we just discussed. But you've got to think about the bigger picture. What could have happened."

"I have thought bigger picture," Neal insisted. "I do think about it, Peter. I know."

Peter studied him, working his jaw. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then he said, "You say you know. Well, it's not enough…" He paused, summarizing all of his culminating thoughts from the last day. This was where head to make a decision. "Here come the repercussions. Your radius? It's now cut in half."

Neal started to make a face. "But why do—"

"No. Don't start. Don't even." Peter shook his head. "No whining. You want me to pick something else?" He raised his eyebrows. "I actually happen to think I'm going easy on you. I know a bunch of things you like far less, Neal, and I've got no problem choosing one or multiple of them."

"Peter…."

"Want me to pick something else? Neal, I guarantee you'll be sorry. I can do that right now."

"Fine," Neal quickly interjected. "Half the radius. How long?"

Peter paused and then slowly responded, "A month."

"A month?" Neal echoed, voice rising in pitch slightly. "But, Peter—"

"You want two months?"

Neal shut his mouth.

Peter continued, "And I'll add another month if you step out of line at all this month, Neal." He studied the sullen face across the desk from him. "Hey, you give me that look, but you realize I could make it a zero radius? You're getting a deal."

"That's a real silver lining here, Peter," Neal responded sarcastically.

"I mean it, Neal. Despite what you might think, I think I'm being quite fair. Besides, you're injured. You really shouldn't be doing much anyway. You were shot, you know."

"Trust me, I know. You're not officially going to change it though, are you?" Neal asked.

"The radius? You mean with the Marshals?" Peter asked. He slowly replied, "No..." He then looked at him skeptically. "Why are you asking me that…? Do I need to?"

"No," Neal replied quickly.

"I'm going to watch where you go," Peter told him, giving him a scrutinizing look. "You're so much as a foot further than you're supposed to be, then I will know. Don't push it, Neal."

"I would never push it," Neal replied, shaking his head with forced sincerity. "I shall remain within my half-radius for your viewing pleasure."

Peter just gave him a look. "You want me to make it house arrest? I can do that, Neal. Maybe it'd remind you that you could very easily be back in a cell for what you did. Maybe that's more fitting. Easier for me as well."

"No," Neal replied insistently. "Half is good. I wasn't being sarcastic. It's enough, Peter. And I'll do it. You don't even have to check."

"Oh, I'll check," Peter answered dryly. "You know I will. Okay, and next…" he started.

"Next?" Neal asked. "What do you mean, next? Isn't that enough?"

"You'd think so," Peter said with a hint of sarcasm. "But it's not. You're going to have to talk to someone," Peter began. He shrugged and leaned back into his chair. "You know Nancy. She—"

"The shrink?" Neal interjected. "You're kidding, Peter." He shook his head. "Don't do that. Please."

Peter let out a small chuckle. "That's not me, buddy. That's actually not a punishment. That's policy."

"Policy?" Neal repeated. "Well can't you do something about it? It's going to be a waste of her and my time."

"That's what I told my boss too," Peter acknowledged wryly.

Neal's brow furrowed. "When do I have to do it?"

"Don't know. Waiting for the phone call."

Neal just shook his head. "Don't answer that call please."

"You just have to just get it over with," Peter replied. "And please don't make a game out of it."

Neal simply continued to shake his head.

"Similarly, you've once again earned us an unimaginable amount of paperwork," Peter commented. "So I'm pretty sure that paperwork is what you're going to be busy with for the next few days."

Neal pressed his lips together but nodded. "You feds love your paperwork," he mused.

Peter gave him a small smile. "We do. Process, policy, order… It's the small things."

"I can name some small things…" Neal mumbled. He caught Peter's admonishing look and gave him a smile. "I'll stop." He paused. "I'm glad to be back, Peter." He paused, as though hesitating, and then said, "Today is better than I expected."

"Is it?"

Neal nodded.

"Well, I'm glad we're back too," Peter agreed, nodding slowly. He considered whether his repercussions were enough. The half-radius versus what else he could have done. Neal didn't seem entirely upset by it. But for now he felt at least something was in place. "This was an unusual case, Neal. And you got much closer to it than I ever expected."

"Considering you almost took me off it."

Peter rolled his eyes slightly. "Exactly."

"You always say things happen for a reason," Neal replied.

"We needed you for this case, Neal," Peter replied. "I don't agree with how you almost ended it, but we're going to work through that. In the end, you solved it."

"We solved it," Neal replied. "I don't know what I would've done if you weren't in Vermont, Peter. I never really thanked you for coming there."

"Of course, Neal," Peter replied, a little dismissively. "There was no other place to be."

"Sure there was. You could've been home with El. You could've been here. I mean, you didn't know what was going to happen."

"Exactly. I didn't know. That's why I went. To be there whenever it did happen. El didn't need me. You did."

Neal gave a small smile. "Thanks."

"If you want to thank someone, thank Diana. I think she kept me sane the last few days," Peter said slowly. "And, Neal, if you want to talk at all about what happened…"

Neal shook his head. "I'm good."

"I mean it. That was an unusual experience, Neal, and –"

"Isn't that what Nancy's for?"

"I'm serious," Peter replied, giving him a look. "If you want to stay with us or you need some time, you just have to tell me."

"No," Neal said. "I'm fine. Really."

"Well, you heard El this morning. She owes you dinner this week. She feels bad her last two meals for you weren't a culinary experience. So pick the day."

Neal rolled his eyes.

"I was going to tell her you don't deserve it," Peter persisted, "but then I realized I'm a mutual beneficiary in the whole thing, so…"

"Clearly." Neal laughed a little. He realized it was the first time he'd laughed in a while. And then he realized he actually felt a little better. "So is that it?"

Peter frowned slightly. "Meaning what?"

Neal swallowed. "Well, to be honest I didn't expect you to be so… calm today. You're only cutting my radius?"

"The day is young," Peter replied. He then shook his head. "Neal, I thought a lot about it. And, yes, I was not calm before. And I was angry. And I meant everything I said to you. And I'm still somewhat angry. But in the long run, deciding on what to do with you out of anger isn't constructive."

"Can I quote you on that in future scenarios?"

"Let's limit the future scenarios," Peter replied with a tone of reproach.

Neal simply nodded at that. Despite the pain in his shoulder and his ribs and his feet, he felt comfortable. He felt safer than he had for a while. The folder in front of him still elicited a small sense of fear, but he knew once he got back to his desk he could figure out what was truly there. Peter was Peter again. Despite what Neal had done, and despite the previous day's anger, Neal now felt it was addressed. Peter could have done many things. And Neal had expected him to. This was… fair.

He suddenly felt closer to Peter. And thankful.

Before he could reflect on that, there was a knock at the door behind them. Then the door creaked open just a small amount.

"Boss?" came Diana's voice. "You have a minute?"

"Yeah, Diana, come on in," Peter replied, breaking his eye contact with Neal to look up towards the door.

Diana pushed the door open another few inches and slipped into the office, hugging a case file to her chest. She cast a quick look at Neal, who had turned his head to view her, and then looked back at Peter. "So I know it's premature since the ink hasn't even dried on this case yet…" she began.

"New case?" Peter asked, raising his eyebrows.

She gave a tight smile. "Yes. Thought you'd want to hear this… This one's a bit unique. The press is calling it the 'Arson Artist'…"

"Arson?" Neal echoed.

"What's the case?" Peter asked, frowning.

"There's been a few fires," Diana continued, "that seem to strategically target art galleries. There's been three so far, and there are some unique, correlated circumstantial clues. They're worried another one will happen today or tomorrow given the timing between the others." She then trailed off and seemed to hesitate.

"And?" Peter urged.

"And we're planning to keep watch over the most likely gallery this evening," she replied. "Like I said, I know you just got back, but Hughes wanted me to come by after I filled him in."

Peter turned his attention to Neal. "Sounds like someone's going to be spending some quality time in the van tonight."

Neal made a face, frowning at the implied message. "Peter…"

"You want a month to be two, Neal?" Peter began, alluding to the radius restriction.

Neal shifted in his chair. "Will you be there too?"

Peter glanced up at Diana and then simply nodded. "Yeah, I will be. It'll be good to get our mind onto a different case. We have enough to do during the day to close this one out this week."

"Thanks, Boss." Diana gave a small smile in the doorway. "Let me coordinate the rest of the details, and then I'll bring you guys up to speed this afternoon."

Peter nodded. "Good. Thanks, Diana."

As Diana exited, Neal gave Peter a critical look. "Am I allowed to be on a new case before I talk to Nancy?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Look at you… Looking for an 'out' already."

"I'm just saying… The van is what started this whole thing, Peter…"

"Arson. Art. I'm surprised you're not more up in arms, Neal."

"I am. Don't doubt that. That's a travesty. But so is being in the van, Peter." He shifted again in his chair. "Do I have to?"

Peter frowned slightly. "What's the matter? This is more than the van, Neal. What is it?"

Neal rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I was supposed to see Moz tonight…" he said slowly.

"Oh," Peter replied. He looked a little taken aback and then just shook his head. "Of course. I know he's been worried. You should see him."

"I can join you after and—"

"Play it by ear."

"Really?"

"Really."

Neal felt a little surprised at the lenient response. "Okay. Thanks."

Peter studied him for a moment, and then said. "One last thing, Neal."

Neal blinked and then remained silent. Maybe this was it. This whole discussion had been less confrontational and painful than he had expected. Surely there was a catch.

Peter reached for his desk drawer, sliding it open.

He reached into the drawer and then emerging in his hand was a familiar device.

The anklet.

Neal eyed it morosely.

"I know," Peter said, noting Neal's expression. He pushed back his chair and stood, walking around the desk. He pulled back the second chair behind his desk and took that seat next to Neal. "You ready?"

Neal sighed, but without objecting shifted his chair to turn himself at an angle towards Peter. Wincing slightly, he moved to raise his leg, propping his foot up against the corner of Peter's chair. "Go ahead," he said.

Peter reached over, gently pushing up the edge of Neal's pants. "This is a sign of you being officially back."

"We should consider other signs," Neal replied glumly. He watched with a frown as Peter gently reattached the inevitable anklet, locking it back into place. As it connected, he simply sighed.

"And it's official…" Peter tugged the pants back down to cover the ankle. "You're back." He patted the leg.

"Champagne would be nice," Neal said.

"Neal…"

"And not that sparking wine imitation crap. I mean some real champagne."

Peter nudged the foot to drop to the floor and Neal complied. "I think the lenient sentence of a temporarily reduced radius, some paperwork, and a session with Nancy is plenty a welcome back," he told him.

"I suppose you're right," Neal replied, grunting slightly as he shifted his weight again in his seat.

"You know I'm right."

"Though last night you said you're not always right."

Peter smirked and then reached over to squeeze Neal's knee. "I did. But I'm right enough," he said. "Don't forget that."

"I don't," Neal agreed. He paused. "One other thing. From your opinion, do you think I'll have to testify?"

"I'll make sure the recorded testimony is enough, Neal."

"Thanks."

Peter nodded.

A moment of silence passed between then.

Neal rotated his foot, acclimating himself to the familiar anklet again. "After all this… I still say it's the pen," he then said slowly. "I blame the pen."

Peter chuckled a bit, recalling the discussion from the hotel room that evening two days ago. Before he had any idea why Neal was acting so vulnerable. "The pen. Indeed." He cleared his throat. "But if you could do me a favor, Neal… If you could allow a little bit of status quo to take precedent before another adrenaline rush for a little while. I'd appreciate it."

"I'll do my best."

"That's all I ever ask."

Neal paused. Then he said, "And if I have a need to extend my radius temporarily…"

"Already?" Peter raised his eyebrows.

"My bike."

"I told you we'd get your bike. Don't even think about trying to yourself."

"When?"

"Neal, you really need it while you have a one mile radius?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to have to agree to disagree there, Neal."

Neal just sighed.

"We'll get it," Peter committed. "Between the paperwork, Nancy, and this new case… If you think you have too much free time, Neal, then I can think of a few other—"

"No, I'm good," Neal interjected. "That's fine. I can wait."

"Good. Then we'll get it for you," Peter committed.

Neal just nodded, silent. Then he said, "Thanks." He looked down at the folder in front of him, materials he was anxious to go through. "Another quote from Miller…" he started. "Was that ' _Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets.'"_

Peter simply raised his eyebrows.

"But I don't want any more regrets," Neal stated.

Peter nodded slowly. "Sounds like wise goal, Neal."

"I figure I have enough for the foreseeable future."

"We'll work through it, Neal."

Neal nodded.

It was then Peter's phone began to ring.

Peter reached over and gave Neal's knee another squeeze as he got up to return to behind his desk. "Go through that folder," he told him, gesturing at the paperwork in front of Neal. He moved towards the phone.

Neal flexed his ankle, but then reached to grab the folder, getting to his feet himself. It was as he stepped towards the door that he heard Peter's address on the phone.

"Oh, hi, Nancy," Peter said. "It's been a while. How are you?"

Neal turned, delivering a serious look to Peter.

Peter waved a hand at him, indicating he should go. "Yes," he said into the phone. "It was an unusual case." He stared at Neal, who remained frozen in his office. "Can you give me just a minute, Nancy? Thanks. Just a minute."

"Tell her it's not necessary," Neal said as he watched Peter move the receiver of the phone to hold it to his chest.

"It's necessary," Peter told Neal. "It's part of the paperwork. And if you don't go back to your desk right now and start to go through that folder I gave you, then I'm going to tell her you need weekly sessions."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Neal narrowed his eyes but then moved to open the office door. "I'm going to tell her she should talk to you. You're irrational."

"You do that," Peter said with a nod. He pointed beyond the door. "Go. Now."

Neal rolled his eyes, but acquiesced.

"Hi, Nancy, sorry about that…" Peter continued on the phone.

Neal stepped outside and closed Peter's door behind him once he exited. He leaned against it for a moment, and then looked down across the bullpen.

For the first time, he finally felt officially back.

He smiled.

* * *

FINIS

So this is the end. I struggle with endings. I really do, and that's probably why this story was close to 460 pages or something like that. Am I happy with the ending? No, not really, but I had to pick one. I never actually intended this story to be as long as it grew. I had a concept I thought I could wrap up in less than 20 chapters and Neal and Peter's inspiration put me well double that. I know I am verbose, as I like to go into the characters' minds and that can go on and on, so I am VERY thankful for folks that stuck with me until the end despite those "boring" parts. I appreciate it immensely, even to those folks out there that never left a comment. I did have an idea for a story based on the "Art Arsonist" that I was toying with next, as well as another White Collar fic. I may dabble. But thanks again to everyone for the support of my pastime. :) Another caveat is that i'm sure there are typos in the HUGE final chapter. I will try to address them...


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